Then came the real blow—

A list of assignments, problem sets, and lab activities, all lined up for the next few weeks. Some of the work wasn't even due for a month, but Estrella expected students to start early because the workload would only get heavier.

Leila flipped through the syllabus, her head spinning.

"This is insane," Tessa whispered beside her. "Does he think we have no other subjects?"

Leila didn't answer, too busy writing everything down in her planner. She had always been good at managing her time, but even she could see this was going to be brutal.

She made a mental decision right then and there—

Start early. Get ahead. Stay ahead.

As soon as the lecture ended, she packed her things and headed straight for the library, determined to handle this workload before it crushed her.

The Valencia estate was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of fine china. The grand hall, illuminated by cascading chandeliers, was filled with generations of the Valencia family—distant cousins, ambitious uncles, and aunts draped in silk and adorned with quiet arrogance.

This was their annual reunion, an affair of forced pleasantries and silent power plays. The long dining table, stretching across the vast room, was set with gleaming silverware and decadent dishes, a display of old money and tradition. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine and slow-roasted meats, but beneath it all was an unspoken tension, an electricity that hummed between conversations.

Then, the tension cracked.

Anthony Valencia walked in—not alone, but with Ivy Reyes at his side.

A hush fell over the room. Conversations halted mid-sentence, wine glasses remained untouched, and pairs of judgmental eyes turned toward the man who had long abandoned the facade of a perfect family. If he noticed—or cared—he didn't show it. Dressed in a pristine suit, he carried himself with the same self-assured arrogance as always, but his grip on Ivy's waist, possessive and deliberate, sent an unmistakable message.

The whispers started immediately.

Axel's grandfather, Hector Valencia, seated at the head of the table, barely turned his head as he spoke to his son in a low, biting voice. "There are mistakes, Anthony. And then there's disgrace. You should know the difference."

Across the table, one of Anthony's sisters, impeccably dressed and sharp-tongued, scoffed. "We all know," she murmured, swirling the wine in her glass, "but even when things are as out in the open as the sun at noon, the least you could do is have some decency." Her gaze flickered toward Celia.

Axel turned just in time to see his mother stiffen. Celia Valencia, the ever-poised, ever-controlled woman, sat frozen in her chair, her hands resting lightly on her lap as though this entire evening had not just turned into a public humiliation. But Axel saw it—the quick rise and fall of her chest, the tightening of her fingers against the fabric of her dress.

Then, she stood.

"I—I need some air," she said, her voice as steady as she could manage. She barely excused herself before turning on her heel, walking away as quickly as dignity allowed.

Axel's stomach twisted.

Without thinking, he pushed back his chair and followed her, his long strides catching up with her just as she reached an empty hallway, away from the suffocating grandeur of the dining hall.

"Mom," he called.

She halted but didn't turn. Her shoulders trembled, and when she raised a hand to her face, Axel realized—she was crying.

He had never seen her like this. Never.

"I thought I was past this," Celia whispered, her voice breaking. "I thought I had hardened myself enough that it wouldn't hurt anymore." She let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking her head. "But it still does. After all these years, it still does."

Axel clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.

"I was so young when I married him," she continued, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears, but the pain ran deeper. "I had my dreams, Axel. I wasn't always just... his wife. But I gave it all up, I played my part, and still—" She swallowed hard. "He never even tried to love me."

The words landed like a punch to Axel's gut.

His mother had never spoken like this before. She had always been composed, dignified, untouchable. But now, standing before him—wounded, exhausted, defeated—she wasn't Celia Valencia, the wife of a powerful man. She was just a woman who had given everything and gotten nothing in return.

Axel's anger burned white-hot.

He had always resented his father. But this—this was different. This was rage, a deep, seething fury that tightened in his chest until he couldn't breathe.

He turned on his heel, striding back toward the dining hall, his blood roaring in his ears.

The moment he stepped back inside, he saw Anthony sitting at the head of the table as if nothing had happened, swirling the wine in his glass, speaking in that same detached, self-important tone. Ivy sat beside him, smug in the knowledge that she had won something.

Axel didn't think. He acted.

His fist connected with his father's jaw before the room had even registered what was happening. The impact sent Anthony stumbling back, crashing against the table, wine spilling across the pristine tablecloth like blood.

The room erupted.

Anthony wiped the corner of his mouth, his gaze darkening as he straightened. "You little—"

Before he could finish, Axel lunged again, shoving him backward. "How dare you," he snarled. "How dare you walk in here with her like my mother is nothing. Like we're nothing."

Anthony's patience snapped. He swung, and Axel barely dodged the hit before slamming his father against the table. Gasps echoed around them, but no one moved to stop it—not yet.

"You have no idea what it means to be a man," Anthony spat, shoving Axel back. "You think throwing punches makes you one? You're pathetic."

Axel let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, and you? You're a real role model, right? A man who can't even respect the mother of his child? Who parades his mistress around like a goddamn trophy?"

Anthony lunged again, but before the fight could escalate, a voice cut through the chaos.

"That's enough."

Celia stood at the entrance, her presence alone commanding silence.

The room stilled as she stepped forward, her hands steady, her chin lifted. Even with tear-streaked cheeks, she held herself like a queen.

"You want to humiliate me, Anthony?" she said, her voice smooth and controlled. "Fine. You've done it. You've made a fool of me in front of our entire family, just as you always have." She took another step forward. "But don't you dare act like you have the right to lecture Axel about what it means to be a man. Because you? You're not one."

Anthony's jaw tightened.

"You're a coward," Celia continued, her tone never rising, but the weight of her words pressing into the room like iron. "A man who hides behind his wealth, who mistakes control for respect, who thinks a mistress on his arm makes him powerful." She tilted her head slightly, eyes cold. "But all it makes you is pathetic."

Anthony opened his mouth, but no words came out.

A slow, approving nod came from Axel's grandfather at the head of the table. Hector turned to his wife, Isabella, who pursed her lips and exhaled softly, disappointment clear in her gaze.

"I told you," she murmured, voice laced with quiet disdain. "The boy was never raised right."

"The fault is his own," Hector replied. "Not his mother's."

Around them, the relatives whispered. Some with disgust, others with smug satisfaction. A few leaned in to each other, murmuring that this was what happened when power got to a man's head. That Anthony, despite his influence, had made a fool of himself.

Ivy, now paling under the weight of the family's judgment, tried to reach for Anthony's arm. He pulled away.

The silence stretched.

And for the first time in his life, Axel didn't just hate his father.

He pitied him.

Without another word, Axel turned on his heel. The fight was over. Whatever power Anthony had once held over him, over his mother, over this family—it had cracked. And Axel wasn't going to waste another second standing in the wreckage.

Celia, still composed despite the tear tracks Axel knew she'd never acknowledge, met his gaze. She tilted her chin slightly, the silent signal of a woman who had mastered the art of walking away with grace. Together, without looking back, they left the dining hall, the weight of old expectations and shattered illusions trailing behind them like ghosts.

The moment they disappeared beyond the threshold, the room seemed to breathe again—but not with relief.

The Valencia family dinner had always been a spectacle of wealth and power, but tonight, it felt like something else entirely. The grand hall, with its towering chandeliers and gleaming gold accents, was as extravagant as ever.

But no amount of luxury could hide the way conversations had stalled, the way silverware clinked awkwardly against plates as people struggled to pretend nothing was amiss.

At the center of it all, Ivy Reyes sat with careful poise beside Anthony, her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. She wore red—a color too bold, too intentional for a woman who wasn't supposed to be here. The dress clung to her in all the ways that demanded attention, but it wasn't her outfit that drew the stares. It was the fact that she was here at all.

She smiled in attempt to lessen the awkwardness, murmuring something into Anthony's ear, but her laughter was too light, too forced. The weight of the room pressed down on her, on them, on the scandal that hung over their heads like an unspoken curse.

The whispers among the relatives were hushed but sharp.

"Brazen, isn't it?" one aunt muttered behind the rim of her glass.
"I would've stayed home if I were her."
"Poor Celia."

At the head of the table, Hector Valencia, the true patriarch of the family, finally broke the silence. He had been quiet, listening, observing—letting his son bury himself under the weight of his own arrogance. Now, with a slow, measured breath, he placed his fork down and turned to Anthony.

"Anthony," Hector said, his voice even but edged with something cold. "You've built an empire, but you couldn't even keep your own family together."

The room froze.

Anthony stiffened, but he didn't speak. His grip tightened around his glass, knuckles turning white. His expression remained composed, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something dark, restrained, barely held back. Rage, humiliation. Defeat. He swallowed it down, but the tension in his jaw gave him away.

Hector's wife, Isabella, exhaled softly, not bothering to look at her son. "You always did have your priorities in the wrong places."

Across the table, Ivy's fingers twitched against the glass. The redness in her cheeks was no longer from the wine. Ivy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearing her throat as if to speak. But Anthony didn't acknowledge her. He didn't say a word, didn't defend her presence, didn't look at her. And for the first time that evening, her confidence cracked.

Anthony said nothing.

Because for the first time, there was nothing to say.