I adjusted my glasses, my hands trembling slightly. It wasn’t fear. It was a suppressed, bubbling grief that he mistook for weakness.

“I built this house, Julian,” I said quietly. “Every brick. I just wanted to see the tree lit up. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“You didn’t build anything!” Julian snapped, checking his reflection again, ensuring not a hair was out of place. “Father left us money. You just sat on it like a hen on a golden egg. I made it relevant. I made the name Van Der Hoven mean something in this city. And tonight, you are not relevant. You are a liability.”

I looked past him to where Maria, the head housekeeper, was arranging a tray of crystal flutes. Maria had been with us for thirty years. She had wiped Julian’s nose, bandaged his knees, and hidden his report cards from his father. Now, she watched him with a look of barely concealed disdain, her lips pressed into a thin line. She caught my eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod—a silent communication forged over decades of shared endurance.