Dinner at the Armstrong estate was not a family affair.
It was a performance.
The dining room was massive, all dark wood and cold marble, a table long enough to seat a small council. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting sharp light that reflected off polished silverware and expensive glassware. Everything gleamed.
Elena entered beside Harper, her posture perfect, her expression calm. She wore a simple black dress, elegant but restrained. No jewelry except small diamond studs. Her hair was sleek, her makeup flawless, the bruise on her neck hidden beneath layers of careful foundation and a high collar.
The moment she stepped in, all eyes fell on her.
Elena drew in a quiet breath as she took them in—every Armstrong gathered in one room, no longer names on a board or faces in magazines, but flesh and bone and power arranged around a polished dining table.
To the left of the head sat Arthur Armstrong, the old patriarch.
He was folded into a wheelchair, frail to the point of looking unfinished, as though death had already begun dismantling him piece by piece. An oxygen tank hummed softly at his side, tubing running to his nose. His head drooped slightly, eyelids heavy, skin thin and papery against sharp bones. A caregiver hovered nearby, watchful and silent. He looked barely conscious, barely alive—certainly not dangerous.
Elena knew better.
Next to him sat Daphne Armstrong, the Grandmother, immaculate as ever.
She wore a soft lavender dress, perfectly tailored, pearls resting neatly at her throat. Her posture was regal, composed, the picture of old money elegance. She smiled faintly, serenely, as if the room existed exactly as it should. Yet her eyes held a distant haze, unfocused in a way that didn't quite track the present. Beautiful. Polite. Slipping away.
Elena's gaze shifted.
Maddox Armstrong sat beside his grandmother, slouched back in his chair like the rules didn't apply to him. A glass of amber liquid rested loosely in his hand, already half-empty. He wore leather—black, worn, deliberately out of place among tailored suits and silk gowns. His smile was lazy, dangerous, and unmistakably predatory as his eyes met hers, lingering without shame. Maddox looked like a man who enjoyed pushing boundaries simply to watch them break.
Across the table sat Victoria Armstrong. The mother.
She was breathtaking in a cold, sculpted way—elegance sharpened into a weapon. Draped in silk and diamonds, she looked impossibly younger than her years, every inch the untouchable society matriarch. Her posture was flawless, her expression composed, but her eyes were locked on Elena with open hostility. No curiosity. No warmth. Just calculation. Assessment and Judgment.
Beside her sat Paul Armstrong. The Father.
He looked calmer, softer at first glance. Tailored suit. Wire-rimmed glasses. Silver threading his hair at the temples in a way that made him appear distinguished rather than aged. A world-famous neurosurgeon who knew how to wear harmlessness like a second skin. But Elena saw it immediately—the coldness behind his gaze. The precision. The way his eyes measured people the way one might examine a specimen under glass.
Lastly, her gaze found him.
Xander Armstrong
He sat at the head of the table.
Not his father. Not his grandfather. Him.
He wore a dark blue suit cut perfectly to his frame, crisp and severe, as if softness had been engineered out of it. His expression was even darker, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the air feel tighter, heavier. When their gazes met, neither looked away. It wasn't curiosity. It wasn't attraction.
It was a challenge.
Elena registered, for the first time, how naturally he occupied the head of the table—how unquestioned his authority seemed, even with the patriarch present. The family revolved around him whether they admitted it or not.
Two seats remained empty.
The aunt. The uncle.
Elena noted their absence instantly.
"Goodness, Harper," Victoria Armstrong began softly.
Her tone was pleasant. Her eyes were not.
They slid over Elena in a single sweep, from head to toe.
"Who is this?"
Elena felt it immediately. That cold, feminine cruelty. The kind that smiled while it measured where to cut.
"Mum, everyone—this is Elena Charles," Harper said, keeping her spine straight. "The one I've been raving about."
"Oh, how lovely," Daphne, the grandmother, chimed in, her voice soft but clear as she cut through the tension. "What is your name, dear?"
Elena blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Hadn't Harper just introduced her? Plus they had met before in Xander's room. It was then she realised Xander hadn't been lying. His Grandmother's mind was truly slipping.
"My name is Elena Charles," she replied smoothly, warmth slipping easily into her voice.
"Well, welcome to our home, Elena," Daphne said, smiling again—then blinking, her attention already drifting.
"Thank you," Elena said as she took her seat beside Harper.
Harper leaned in and murmured under her breath, "Grandma has early-onset Alzheimer's. She forgets… a lot."
Before Elena could respond, Paul spoke.
"Elena Charles, is it?"
"Yes, sir," Elena replied politely, her smile intact.
Paul didn't look at her again. His attention shifted to Harper instead.
"So this is it," he said coldly. "Another experiment to save your collapsing brand. I still can't believe you dropped out of college for this nonsense."
Harper inhaled sharply.
"Really, Dad," she muttered, her voice cracking despite her effort. "Can I have one moment where you don't make me feel like a complete failure?"
Paul let out a short laugh. "You are a failure. How exactly am I supposed to stop stating facts?"
Maddox's chair scraped back slightly as he slammed his glass onto the table. Everyone's attention turned to him. He was seated directly across his father.
"Here's a fact for you, old man," he snapped, leaning forward. His smile was gone now—eyes sharp and dangerous. "You're an arsehole. And every time I'm within ten feet of you, I feel like slitting your throat. So shut the fuck up and stop talking to my sister like that. She is not a failure.
Silence.
Paul slowly turned his head toward Maddox, his expression one of pure disdain.
"A useless son calling his father an arsehole," he said coolly. "How original." He sneered. "You're worthless. And she's no better." His voice rose. "Every day I wonder how I ended up with such disappointments."
Harper's face drained of color.
Elena watched, utterly fascinated. From the outside, from the pictures, they looked like the perfect family—polished, powerful, untouchable. Sitting here, though? She couldn't help but enjoy the spectacle of how spectacularly broken they were.
"That's enough, Paul," Victoria said sharply, her fingers tightening around her wine glass. "Can you not do this tonight? There is a guest at this table."
"No, darling," Paul said coolly. "There's a stranger in my house—one your daughter thoughtlessly dragged in."
"You mean my house," Xander growled.
It was the first words he had spoken all night. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to, but everyone turned to his direction.
His cold gaze locked onto his father's. Elena saw Paul visibly swallow.
"And I would like everyone to shut the hell up," Xander continued flatly, "so I can eat my dinner in peace."
His gaze lifted briefly—met Elena's eyes for half a second—then dropped back to his plate.
He continued eating.
No one spoke.
Not Paul.
Not Victoria.
Not Maddox.
Elena sat perfectly still, pulse steady, lips neutral.
And for the first time that night, she smiled inwardly.
This family was already bleeding. She wouldn't have to do much work to ruin them completely.
"I feel terrible," Daphne suddenly said.
The table stilled.
Elena's eyes flicked to the old woman. Her voice was thin, trembling — lucid in a way that felt almost fragile. Elena could have sworn she saw Victoria roll her eyes before schooling her face back into polite neutrality.
"I've forced you all to dinner every night," Daphne continued, fingers tightening around her napkin, "because I thought it would make us closer. Not tear us apart even further."
Maddox exhaled sharply, pushing his chair back just a fraction.
"Grandma, I love you," he said, irritation bleeding into his voice, "but I can't keep doing this. I have better things to do with my time."
Daphne's eyes snapped to him.
"Family is important, Maddox. And so is image," she snapped, suddenly steel beneath the frailty. "This family has been stuck together like glue for generations. It is my job to make sure it continues."
Her gaze swept the table, daring anyone to challenge her.
"Soon your grandfather and I will be gone," she added quietly. "I will not have this family falling apart when that time comes."
"It's inevitable," Harper murmured.
The word barely left her lips.
"This family is already falling apart."
Her voice cracked. Tears stung her eyes — she blinked them back furiously, but the damage had already been done. Paul's earlier words had landed exactly where he intended.
Elena noticed Maddox immediately.
The way his jaw tightened.
The way his eyes softened when they landed on Harper.
He reached for his glass but didn't drink — just stared at his sister like he wanted to shield her from the entire room. The warmth in his gaze was unmistakable—he loved her. Fiercely.
Xander, on the other hand, didn't even look up.
He continued eating, calm and detached, as if none of this concerned him.
Paul leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Mother, let's be honest," he said coolly. "My good genes were passed only to Xander. That's why he leads. That's why he excels."
Harper flinched.
"The rest of my children," Paul continued, unmoved, "are simply useless. Spoilt. Living off our name. They are the reason this family is falling apart."
Daphne opened her mouth to respond.
But she never spoke.
Her expression changed.
It was subtle at first — a flicker in her eyes, pupils dilating unnaturally. Then her gaze snapped sideways.
Locked.
On Victoria.
"You," Daphne whispered.
Victoria frowned. "Me? What is it, Mother?"
Daphne stood so abruptly her chair screeched backward.
"YOU KILLED LAURA," she screamed, her voice ripping through the room. "YOU MONSTER!"
Before anyone could react, Daphne grabbed the knife from the centre of the table — the one used to carve the beef — and lunged.
The room exploded.
Harper screamed.
Victoria barely moved in time. The blade missed her throat but tore across her face, slicing skin open from cheekbone downward.
Blood poured instantly.
Victoria staggered back, hand flying to her face as crimson soaked her fingers.
"Grandma!" Maddox shouted, rushing forward.
He grabbed Daphne as she thrashed violently, strength gone but rage endless. Within seconds, three people in white stormed the room — orderlies. They restrained her arms as she fought them like a feral animal.
"You killed Laura!" Daphne screamed over and over. "You killed Laura! You killed her!"
They dragged her away, her voice echoing down the hall.
Silence followed.
Blood dripped onto the marble floor.
Elena sat frozen.
Her heart hammered, but her face remained eerily calm.
What the hell just happened?
And more importantly—
Who the hell was Laura?