Philip didn't answer. It wasn't his decision. It was all Jeffrey's. What could he say?
Christina, now standing beside her husband, answered for him with aristocratic coolness. "Well, her son has finally put his mother where she belongs."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Greta recoiled. "Mom? You too?"
Her voice cracked.
"That orphan—that nobody—brought a loaded gun into our living room, pointed it at Jeffrey, and now she's treated like royalty and gets handed over millions to waste? What's next? You'll let her throw the rest of us out of the house? Those of us who actually carry Winchester blood?"
Christina opened her mouth, but Philip stepped forward, cane striking the marble floor with a commanding thud.
"Yes," he said, voice like stone. "Joanne could do that. And listen closely… if she had wanted to kill Jeffrey that day, I would've let her. And if I could allow that, Greta…imagine what I'd allow her to do to you."
The room fell into stunned silence.
