A week after the gala, beneath Elvira's composed exterior, her mind churned with plans and possibilities.

Cyrus called occasionally, his tone unchanged. Elvira's responses were flawless performances.


But she knew waiting would only weaken her position. The key to the cemetery chapel felt heavy in her palm—a burning opportunity.

She needed to strike first—to visit the place where the Greshams buried their secrets and find answers about the Thornheart.

Thursday afternoon, she called Lytton.


"Mr. Lytton?" Her voice was the perfect blend of casual and respectful. "It's Elvira. I was organizing my things and found the cemetery chapel key—Cyrus must have left it with me by mistake. I can drop it by tomorrow evening. Oh, and Cyrus mentioned there might be an old jewelry catalog stored there that could inspire my new collection. Would it be alright if I took a quick look while I'm there?"

She deliberately left vague when exactly Cyrus had mentioned this catalog, neatly packaging her request within the legitimate errand of returning the key.


Lytton didn't hesitate. He thanked her for being so "considerate" and even told her precisely where to find the catalog.

After hanging up, Elvira exhaled slowly. The trap was set—with herself as both hunter and bait.

She needed to discover firsthand what connection that cemetery chapel had to the Thornheart.

Friday evening arrived with a darkening sky.

Elvira drove alone toward Ash Lake.

The family cemetery lay silent under the fading light, its rusted iron gates gaping like a beast's maw. She parked, pushed through the already-ajar gate, and stepped inside.

An eerie stillness hung over the graveyard, broken only by the soft scrape of her footsteps on slick cobblestones.

She treaded lightly, navigating by the last threads of daylight. As she neared the chapel, voices drifted toward her.

She ducked behind a massive cypress, the sharp scent of resin filling her lungs as she held her breath.

Moonlight spilled across the clearing before the chapel, illuminating two figures.

Cyrus stood tall in a dark overcoat. Opposite him was a slender woman in white—Isabel.

Cyrus had his back to Elvira's hiding place.

In his hands was a dark velvet box. He opened it and removed its contents—the Thornheart necklace, exactly as it had appeared in her mother's drawings!

Cyrus fastened the necklace around Isabel's pale throat. The amber gleamed cold against her delicate skin.

"Welcome home, Isabel." Cyrus's voice carried through the silence with a tenderness Elvira had never heard from him before.

Isabel touched the amber pendant, her face lighting with a perfect smile—part emotion, part coy shyness. "Cyrus… it's exquisite. You really made it…"

"I keep my promises." His voice was quiet but absolute.

Behind the tree, Elvira's nails bit crescents into her palm.

The scene confirmed her darkest suspicions. She fought the urge to confront them, forcing herself to remain hidden.

Just then, Isabel's gaze drifted toward her hiding spot. A knowing smile flickered across her lips, there and gone in an instant.

Ice formed in Elvira's chest. Had she imagined it, or…?

Decision made, she stepped from behind the tree. Her footsteps cracked on the gravel, alerting the pair.

They turned in unison. Cyrus's eyes narrowed to laser focus, locking onto her like a predator.

Isabel showed perfect surprise—a small step back, one hand fluttering to her chest.

"Elvira?" Isabel's voice dripped with theatrical concern. "What on earth are you doing here? It's getting dark, and this place is so isolated."

Ignoring Isabel, Elvira addressed Cyrus directly, fighting to keep her voice level. "I came to return the key. And to look at that catalog you mentioned." Her gaze fixed on the amber pendant. "That necklace… it's extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it. Does it have a name?"

Cyrus's brow furrowed, something complex shifting behind his eyes. He didn't answer.

Isabel jumped in, her voice soft but laced with subtle triumph. "It's called 'Thornheart.' Cyrus had it made specially for me. One of a kind." She smiled up at him adoringly.

Elvira's heart seized in her chest.

She stared at Cyrus, her voice betraying the slightest tremor. "Cyrus, that necklace… where did you get the design?"

Cyrus cut her off, his voice glacial. "That's not your concern, Elvira. Leave the key and go."

His dismissal ignited the rage she'd been banking for days.

Isabel tugged at Cyrus's sleeve, her voice a perfect tremolo of distress. "Cyrus, don't be harsh with her… she's just curious. Elvira, dear, this necklace is Cyrus's gift to me. Perhaps its origins aren't something we should—"

"Aren't something we should what?" A week's worth of rage and pain exploded from Elvira. She stepped forward, her voice slicing through the cemetery silence. "The Thornheart was my mother's design! Her blueprints vanished after her death! Where did you get them, Cyrus? What right do you have to steal her work and give it to someone else?!"

Her accusations shattered the pretense like glass.

Isabel recoiled from Elvira's outburst with a startled cry. She stumbled backward—a perfectly timed misstep that left her teetering on the edge of the slope leading down to the lake.

With theatrical grace, she began to fall backward!

"Isabel!" Cyrus's expression transformed. Before he moved, Elvira caught his quick assessment—the flicker of annoyance as Isabel's hand clutched desperately at his collar.

But in the next instant, calculation gave way to decision. He lunged forward, catching Isabel with one fluid motion and pulling her safely against his chest.

Elvira stood forgotten, a ghost at the periphery. In that split-second rescue, his priorities had become crystal clear.

"You're safe now," Cyrus murmured, cradling the "shaken" Isabel. She pressed against him, trembling with delicate precision.

Cyrus looked up at Elvira.

Any remaining complexity in his gaze had vanished, replaced by pure ice and accusation.

"Elvira Field!" He spat her full name like venom. "Look what you've done! Your wild accusations and emotional outburst nearly injured Isabel! If she'd been hurt, would you have taken responsibility?"

In that moment, Isabel—still pressed against Cyrus's chest—turned her head just enough to catch Elvira's eye over his shoulder.

In the moonlight, her face showed no trace of fear—only a flash of malicious triumph. That smile said everything: Game over. I win.

Then she buried her face against him once more, the perfect picture of distress.

Elvira felt herself turn to stone.

The lake wind cut to the bone, yet couldn't match the cold spreading through her chest.

She stared at the embracing couple—at Cyrus's unwavering choice, at Isabel's flawless performance. The picture was complete now.

Her rage and questions suddenly seemed pointless. A bone-deep exhaustion washed over her, leaving nothing but hollow emptiness.

She didn't bother arguing. Didn't even look at them again.

Step by step, she backed away, then turned and walked the path she'd come, leaving this graveyard that now entombed her last illusions and attachments.

She felt their stares boring into her back, but it didn't matter. From this moment, she had cut all ties with Cyrus Gresham and his world of cold calculation.