1.I came home for Christmas expecting my four little daughters to run into my arms. Instead, I found them barefoot and freezing

The grand ballroom was a sea of velvet, silk, and sparkling diamonds.

Over seventy people—Aspen’s self-proclaimed elite, local politicians, real estate tycoons, and Bianca’s circle of shallow socialite friends—were drinking hundred-dollar-a-glass champagne. A live DJ in a raised booth was spinning heavy electronic beats while catering staff in black waistcoats carried trays of beluga caviar and roasted lamb chops.

At the center of the main dining table, standing on the polished mahogany top in a pair of five-inch silver heels, was Bianca Whitmore.

She was twenty-six, stunningly beautiful, with sculpted platinum hair and a gown made of silver sequins that caught every flash of the party lights. She was holding a double-magnum bottle of Dom Pérignon, laughing hysterically as she sprayed sparkling wine over a crowd of cheering guests.

"To the Whitmore fortune!" Bianca shouted, her voice amplified by the room's acoustics. "And to Ethan, who is currently stuck in a snowdrift in New York while we burn his money!"

The crowd roared with laughter.

Ethan walked down the wide marble staircase. He didn't rush. He moved with the slow, terrifying momentum of a glacier. His four daughters walked close behind him, their small, bare feet silent against the cold stone floor, their oversized, faded nightgowns looking like rags amidst the sea of designer dresses.

A server carrying a tray of seared scallops stepped into Ethan’s path. Ethan didn't even look at him; he simply shoved the server’s arm aside, sending fifty thousand dollars' worth of porcelain and seafood crashing onto the marble floor.

CRASH!

The sharp sound cut through the music. A few guests turned, surprised. Then the DJ, noticing the dark-suited man marching toward the center of the room, cut the music entirely.

The sudden silence in the massive room was deafening.

Bianca stopped laughing. She wiped a stray drop of champagne from her chin and looked down from her mahogany stage. When her eyes landed on Ethan, her expression shifted from drunken euphoria to brief shock, then instantly smoothed into a practiced, dazzling smile.

"Ethan!" Bianca squeaked, stepping off the table with the practiced grace of a model, assisted by two handsome young men in tuxedos. "Darling! You made it! I thought your flight was canceled! Look at this, everyone! The big boss is home!"

She strutted toward him, arms open, expecting a embrace. "I threw this surprise party for your investors, sweetie. I knew how hard you were working, so I—"

She stopped three feet away.

Ethan hadn't moved a muscle. His face was devoid of color, his eyes twin coals of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Bianca’s eyes flicked down. She saw the four little girls hiding behind Ethan’s legs.

A flash of genuine venom flickered across her features before she masked it again, pouting her painted lips. "Ethan... why are they out of their rooms? I told you, they’ve been so difficult lately. They have this terrible habit of sleepwalking and breaking things. I had to put them on a strict routine."

"A strict routine," Ethan repeated. His voice was not loud, but it possessed a terrifying density that caused the guests nearby to take a step back.

"Yes," Bianca said smoothly, addressing the crowd with a light chuckle to maintain control of the room. "You know how toddlers are. If you don't keep them disciplined, they turn into little monsters. I was just telling Mayor Vance how much effort I put into their structure..."

Ethan reached out. His large hand closed around the neck of the glass champagne bottle Bianca was holding.

He didn't pull it from her hand; he simply squeezed.

CRACK.

The heavy glass shattered in his bare grip. Champagne and jagged shards exploded across the floor. Blood began to drip from Ethan’s palm, bright red against the silver sequins of Bianca’s dress, but he didn't even flinch. He didn't seem to feel it.

Bianca shrieked, jumping backward. "Ethan! Are you insane?! You’re bleeding!"

"Why are my daughters eating moldy bread, Bianca?" Ethan asked.

The room went dead silent.

Several women in the crowd gasped. Mayor Vance, who was holding a plate of truffle appetizers, froze mid-chew.

"What... what are you talking about?" Bianca stammered, her cheeks flushing red under her foundation. "That's absurd! They eat organic meals prepared by—"

"I found them," Ethan interrupted, stepping closer until he was looming over her. "In the unheated west wing. Barefoot. In the dark. Eating rot from a plastic plate while you stood on my table spraying champagne."

"They're lying!" Bianca screeched, pointing a long, manicured fingernail at the four trembling girls. "They're manipulative little brats, Ethan! They hid that bread to make me look bad! They do it on purpose! Ask anyone here—I am a devoted stepmother!"

Not a single person in the crowd spoke up to defend her. The socialites who had been drinking her champagne suddenly looked down at their shoes.

Ava stepped out from behind Ethan’s leg. She didn't look at Bianca; she looked up at her father.

"She locked the kitchen, Daddy," Ava said softly, her small voice echoing in the vast, silent room. "She put a padlocks on the fridge. She told us if we touched the food for the party, she’d put us in the cellar with the rats."

Ethan turned his gaze back to Bianca.

"You have five minutes," Ethan said, his tone dropping into a register that sounded like a death sentence. "Get your clothes. Get your jewelry. Get out of my house."

Bianca’s eyes widened, her posture shifting from defensive to viciously hostile. She sneered, wiping the fake sweetness from her face entirely.

"Get out?" she laughed bitterly, crossing her arms. "You think you can throw me out, Ethan? Check your legal documents, darling. We’ve been married for a year. Under Colorado law, this mansion is marital property. My name is on the deed of the Aspen estate. You can't touch me."

She stepped right into his face, her voice dropping into a whispered hiss that only Ethan could hear.

"You want to play hardball, big guy? Go ahead. Try to kick me out. I'll call the press tomorrow. I'll tell them the great Ethan Whitmore neglects his kids and abuses his young wife. I’ll ruin your stock value before the markets open on Monday. Now take these miserable little creatures back to their rooms before they ruin my party."