In the kitchen, Margaret immediately retrieved an ice pack wrapped in a clean dish towel.

“Hold this to your face,” she said, her stern face showing a rare flicker of sympathy.

I took the ice pack and pressed it against my swollen cheek.

The cold was sharp and painful, but it began to numb the sting.

“I should have stayed quiet,” I whispered, my voice shaking.

“No,” Margaret said firmly. “You did what any mother would do. She had no right to speak of Emma.”

The kitchen doors remained closed, but the silence of the house was heavy, waiting for the next blow.

I could hear the muffled sound of voices from the study down the long corridor.

They were shouting.

Even through the thick oak doors, the anger was clear.

I knew what was at stake.

Julian’s entire shipping network on the lake relied on the Senator’s goodwill.

Without those routes, his business would freeze just like the winter waters.

Margaret and I stood in the kitchen, waiting.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, the kitchen door swung open.

Julian stood there.