Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)

He was stubborn to the core-old-fashioned, pigheaded, and about as

chauvinistic as they come.

Being called out like this in front of everyone by his usually quiet son was a punch to his pride. His face went red with anger. He snatched up his coffee mug and hurled it to the hardwood floor. The ceramic shattered, sending shards everywhere. No one dared even breathe.

"You've got some nerve, boy! Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?"

Edwin, for once, didn't back down. He met his father's glare, calm and steady. "Dad, you really think you had nothing to do with what happened to Warren? Not even a little?"

Tristan's jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. He said nothing, nostrils flaring.

Warren, who'd been staring at the floor the whole time, looked up, startled. "Uncle Edwin, what are you talking about?"

Edwin's lips twisted in a bitter half-smile. "Maybe it's better if someone else explains."

He turned to the old oak doors at the far end of the room.

Three figures slowly stepped inside.

Warren's eyes went wide with shock as he recognized the man leading them- and so did most of the others. Even Sylvia, who had been quietly standing in the back, realized she'd seen his face in the family portrait hanging in the study.noveldrama

It was Warren's father, Patrick Garcia. The man everyone thought had died years ago.

He looked older now, with gray streaks at his temples and deep lines on his face, much more so than Edwin, despite being only a couple years apart. But his smile was warm, genuine, and infectious.

"Dad?" Warren's voice trembled. "You're alive?"

Patrick gave a small, apologetic nod. "Yeah. I'm here."

Warren practically leapt to his feet, pointing a shaky finger at Rupert. "Dad, tell everyone was it Rupert? Did he kill you?"

Patrick's brows drew together in annoyance. "Who told you that? Rupert had nothing to do with what happened to me."

"That can't be!" Warren gasped, stumbling back in disbelief.

Before he could process any of it, Tristan shot up out of his chair, gaping at

Patrick. "Patrick, what happened to you? You look... different."

Patrick smiled gently, gesturing to the two people behind him. "Sorry, Dad. But I'm fine. I'd like you to meet my wife and daughter."

The room, which had been tense but at least civil, turned absolutely frigid.

Sylvia glanced at the woman and her daughter. The woman wasn't Hollywood gorgeous, but she had clear eyes and a bright, open smile. Her short chestnut hair framed a healthy, sun-kissed face. The girl next to her, maybe eleven or twelve, was a perfect mix of both parents-her grin was sunshine itself.

Sylvia couldn't help but notice that, unlike the rest of the family in their designer clothes and stiff postures, these two seemed refreshingly real. The cold, stifling air of the parlor suddenly felt lighter.

But the peace shattered as Tristan's voice boomed from the head of the table.

"I won't allow this! Any woman who breaks up a family is trash, and I don't want her kind here. Get them out-now. As far away as possible. And you-" he pointed at Patrick, "-you'll hold a press conference with Fiona and say you'd lost your memory, that you were recovering somewhere else. I won't have you dragging this family's name through the mud!"

Patrick let out a short, cold laugh. "You really haven't changed at all, have you?"

Before he could say more, Fiona-who had been frozen in shock-suddenly snapped. She lunged for the woman and her daughter, grabbing a shard of the broken mug as she went.

"You homewrecking whore! You seduced my husband and tore my family apart!"

Sylvia, closest to the scene, jumped forward to pull Fiona off.

Fiona missed her target, but, wild with rage, she turned on Sylvia.

Sylvia had nowhere to run and saw the sharp edge flashing toward her—but just

in time, Rupert stepped in. He grabbed Fiona's wrist in a vice grip.

There was a nasty crack, the shard clattered to the floor, and Fiona doubled over in pain.

"My patience has limits," Rupert said coldly.