He had just watched his careful preparation prove necessary, watched his mother expose herself just as he had feared she would, watched the boundary he had built become unavoidable.

A different man would have felt triumph, the grim satisfaction of being proven right, of finally, after years of cruelty, turning the tables.

Caleb felt none of that.

What was on his face was grief.

Grief that his mother was who she was.

Grief that it had come to this.

Grief that his daughter had been hurt badly enough that a brass key in a velvet box had become the only remaining way to keep her safe.

He had not wanted to win.