Since Mary Jane's departure to Amsterdam, the Frost household had darkened — a silence cloaked in grief, and Genevieve's mental state steadily deteriorating.
The air inside the house felt cold, heavy. Every corner held unsaid words, and every doorway seemed to echo what could no longer be spoken.
William tried to convince himself that things could still be fixed. But with each passing day, his wife drifted further from sanity.
One night, he heard Genevieve screaming at their two-year-old daughter, Lucille, who was crying in her crib.
"You're a curse, you little brat!" she shouted, eyes burning with resentment.
Outside the room, the man stood frozen — trembling, unable to believe what he was hearing. When he could no longer bear the cruelty, he rushed in.
"Genevieve," he pleaded, nearly on his knees, "please… love our daughter. If I ruined your dreams, forgive me. But don't pass that pain onto her."
Genevieve's reply was ice-cold.
"You two deserve each other. Both of you are burdens. Both of you ruined my life."
With that, she turned and walked out into the night, leaving father and child behind.
The father held Lucille tightly, as if afraid the darkness might steal her too. As he rocked her gently, memories of happier days returned — their courtship, their wedding, the promises. Tears fell unnoticed. He whispered to himself, "Let this be a nightmare. Let Lucille wake up to something better."
Weeks later, Lucille Frost was baptized at church. But one presence was conspicuously absent — Genevieve, who should have been there, celebrating her daughter's spiritual birth.
"William, where's your wife?" asked Antonette, watching him drift through the ceremony like a ghost.
He didn't answer. He simply stared at Lucille, asleep in his arms.
"I never thought your wife would be that kind of mother," Antonette continued. "I have seven children already. I loved them all. But your wife…" She shook her head and sighed.
Antonette tried to cover for Genevieve when the priest asked. "The mother will join us later, Father. She's attending to something urgent."
But the priest's face showed doubt.
"Something more urgent than her own child's baptism?" the priest quite shock of the reason heard.
William remained silent. Each word felt like a hammer striking his conscience. To avoid further questions, he allowed the ceremony to proceed without Genevieve. The baptism went smoothly, but in Eric's heart, there was a void — one that no prayer could fill.
At the Philadelphia Family Court, Vivian and Raymond met for the last time. The divorce had become too complicated, and Vivian had chosen a different lawyer to finalize it.
"This will be our last meeting, Raymond," she said calmly, handing him an envelope.
"If that's what you want, I can't stop you," Raymond replied, trying to accept the truth. "I hope you find happiness."
Vivian gave a faint smile. "You'll still see Tristan during summer. We'll come home, as agreed."
After she left, Raymond stared at the door — both of them wounded, both of them silent.
Two households, different faces, but the same story of collapse.
Back at the Frost home, after the baptism, Genevieve arrived — her rage like a storm with no direction.
"Well, the show's over! Everyone get out!" she shouted at guests still chatting and eating.
"Genevieve, please don't treat them like this. It's your daughter's baptism," William said, trying to stay calm and removing the rising fame against his wife.
But her fury only grew.
"They should be ashamed! Eating like pigs! Starving parasites!"
"Hey, Genevieve!" Antonette snapped. "Watch your mouth. You didn't even show up — now you're causing a scene?"
"You have no right to speak to me!" Genevieve barked.
"I have every right," Antonette replied, her voice firm with both pity and anger. "I loved you as a friend. But remember this — don't regret what you're doing to your own family."
William remained quiet, head bowed like a scolded child.
The home that once echoed with music now rang with shouting and shame. Outside, the gossip began — the Frost's family were falling apart.
Days after the scene, William visited the dance studio he once proudly inherited from his father. But instead of music, silence greeted him.
"Why are the earnings so low, Mercy?" he asked the secretary.
"Sir, no one wants to learn the dance steps anymore, some people in said it's quite old and forgotten by years" she replied softly.
Before anyone could explain further, Genevieve stormed in, furious.
"You're all thieves! You're stealing from us!" she accused.
"That's not true, ma'am," Grace replied, trembling.
"Then why is this all the money we have? It's not even enough to pay taxes!" Genevieve snapped.
"If you don't believe us, Mrs. Frost, ask the USSEC — the United States Securities and Exchange Commission. They know your business's real condition," Grace said, barely containing herself.
"Liars!" Genevieve screamed, deafening the room.
"Mr. Frost, it's good you're here," Grace continued. "We haven't been paid in three months. But we stayed because you've been a good employer — to me and my mother. But your wife's accusations? That's too much."
Grace grabbed her bag to leave.
"Grace, maybe we can talk this through," William said, trying to stop her.
"Talk? Mr. Frost, if you only knew what your wife has done while you were away, you'd tell Mercy and me to leave. Her treatment of us has been cruel — especially to Gerard Holl, your last dance instructor. He asked for a cash advance for his hospitalized child. Your wife ignored him. He tried to steal out of desperation. He was arrested. And while he sat in jail, his child died. All because of your wife and the worst part is Gerard never knew all of this, and if he's freed from jail, you two will surely gets revenge"
Genevieve said nothing but inside her mind fear started to crawl.
William stood in silence puzzled on how to set things right done by his wife. The pain he felt echoed the night he first heard his wife scream at their child.
The two remaining staff left — carrying their anger and disappointment.
And as the last person walked out, William heard the studio door close softly behind them.
It sounded like the end of something.