I stood in the Thorne mansion's dining room, watching my mother's face contort with panic as she realized the gravity of her situation. Behind me, my men were already searching the house on my orders, their footsteps echoing through the hallways. Lady Rowena Thorne – the woman who had given birth to me but never truly mothered me – sat rigid in her chair, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
"You can't be serious, Alaric," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her attempt to sound commanding. "I am your mother."
"No," I replied, my voice as cold as winter frost. "You ceased being my mother the moment you ordered men to attack Alistair."
My father stood awkwardly between us, his face ashen. "Son, please reconsider. Whatever Rowena has done—"
"Silence," I cut him off sharply. "You've spent decades enabling her cruelty. Your weakness makes you just as culpable."
