Don’t Sign It Yet!” the Maid’s Daughter Cried

Ten minutes later, Sofia Moretti was wrapped in a heavy velvet coat, supported gently on either side by Vincent and Dominic as they ascended the stone stairs back into the grand ballroom.

The transformation of the room was absolute.

The festive, glittering atmosphere had curdled into a scene of utter terror. The invited guests stood huddled in tight, terrified clusters near the windows, whispering frantically among themselves. The security guards had formed a solid human wall around the perimeter, ensuring nobody left.

Charles Bellamy was sitting flat on the marble floor near the fireplace, sobbing quietly into his hands, completely broken.

Isabella stood frozen near the exit, her makeup streaked with tears of panic, realizing that her golden parachute had just exploded in mid-air.

When Sofia stepped out of the service corridor into the bright chandelier light, gasps echoed through the room. Several high-society matrons pressed their hands to their mouths, horrified by the spectral, undeniable proof of a crime that had remained buried beneath their feet for three years.

Grace Carter stepped forward from the crowd, her eyes wide with shock, holding a glass of warm water out to Sofia with trembling hands. "Oh, my sweet Jesus… Mrs. Moretti…"

Sofia took the glass with shaking fingers, offering Grace a tired, grateful smile. "Thank you, Grace. I always knew you were the only honest soul in this house."

Vincent kept his arm firmly around Sofia’s waist, shielding her from the stares, his dark eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury as he turned to face his cousin.

"Dominic," Vincent said quietly.

"Yeah, Vince?"

"Take Charles and Isabella down to the sub-basement. Put them in the room they built for my wife. Lock the door, throw away the key, and tell our legal team to begin drafting the paperwork transferring every single asset they own directly into a trust for Emily Carter."

Dominic grinned—a cold, humorless expression. "Consider it done."

Two guards hauled Charles Bellamy to his feet by his expensive silk tie while another two escorted a wailing, protesting Isabella toward the cellar doors.

Vincent looked down at Sofia, his heart swelling with a fierce, protective devotion that dwarfed anything he had ever known. Then, he looked over at eight-year-old Emily, who was still standing proudly beside her mother, clutching her backpack.

Vincent walked over to the little girl, knelt down on one knee, and looked her dead in the eye.

"Emily," he said, his voice ringing clearly across the silent ballroom. "You saved my family today. Name anything you want in this world—a house, a college fund, a pony, an island—and it is yours before the sun sets."

Emily blinked, thinking for a moment, before shaking her head. "I don't need an island, Mr. Moretti."

"Then what do you want?"

Emily looked up at her mother, then back at Vincent, offering a small, confident grin. "Can you make sure the gardeners never plant white roses in the winter again?"

A genuine, booming laugh—the first real laugh Vincent Moretti had emitted in three long, agonizing years—echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the estate.