If we don’t get them out of this freezing sleet immediately, the frost will take both of those innocent babies!” Kaelen barked, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind beneath the rusted Boston overpass.

The grand plaza outside the Quincy Ballroom was swarmed by hundreds of high-society photographers, international journalists, and television broadcast vans.

Flashbulbs erupted in blinding waves as the elite dynasties of New England arrived in stretch limousines and luxury sedans.

Julian Croft stepped out of his custom Maybach, leaning heavily on an ornate silver-tipped cane to support his injured knee.

Beside him walked Corinne Delacroix, draped in a lavish black silk mourning gown that was cut dangerously low, dripping in emeralds purchased with Croft corporate credit.

Julian forced a tragic, sorrowful expression for the cameras, dabbing at his dry eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Tonight is an evening of profound heartbreak for my family,” Julian spoke into a cluster of eager microphones on the red carpet.

“My beloved wife, Elena, succumbed to severe postpartum complications three nights ago.”

“In her final moments, she entrusted me with the solemn duty of preserving our family’s philanthropic legacy.”

“Tonight, Corinne and I are establishing the Elena Croft Memorial Foundation to oversee our maritime community investments.”

The reporters murmured in sympathetic unison, scribbling notes as cameras captured Julian’s rehearsed grief.

Suddenly, a low, thunderous rumble echoed down the avenue.

The chatter on the red carpet ground to an abrupt, awkward halt as a convoy of eight jet-black armored Rolls-Royce Phantoms pulled into the VIP lane.

The vehicles bore no license plates, only the polished silver crest of the Mercer-Hawthorne alliance.

Twenty heavily armed tactical operatives in midnight-navy suits stepped out of the escort vehicles, forming an impenetrable security corridor from the curb to the ballroom doors.

The rear door of the lead Phantom opened.

Silas Mercer stepped onto the red carpet, radiating an aura of terrifying, absolute authority that parted the sea of paparazzi like water.

He turned, extending his hand into the vehicle.

I stepped into the blinding flashbulbs.

The midnight-blue velvet suit caught the glare of the lights, the black diamonds glittering like cold stars against my silhouette.

My posture was straight, commanding, and untouchable.

And nestled safely against my chest in a custom dual silk baby carrier were Aurelia and Seraphina, wrapped in soft white cashmere blankets bearing the golden Hawthorne seal.

The entire red carpet fell into a dead, horrifying silence.

Reporters dropped their pens.

Photographers forgot to press their shutters.

Julian Croft stared at me as if the earth had split open beneath his feet, his jaw dropping so violently his silver cane clattered against the pavement.

“Elena…?” Julian gasped, the word coming out as a strangled, high-pitched wheeze.

Corinne took an involuntary step backward, clutching her emerald necklace as her face drained of every ounce of color.

I walked forward, my four-inch heels clicking against the granite with the steady, chilling rhythm of a ticking time bomb.

I stopped two feet from where Julian stood trembling.

“I hear you were mourning my death, Julian,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the live broadcast microphones of the nation.