Cara stood frozen at the top of the stairs.
She clutched the sheet tighter around her body, pulse thundering in her ears. The walls felt thinner. The air thicker. Like everything around her was listening.
Downstairs, voices.
One male. One female.
Not shouting. Not whispering.
But cold.
“I told you not to come here,” Michael said. His voice—deeper now, with that edge only Camille could bring out in him.
Camille.
Cara didn’t have to see her to know she was wearing red. That kind of woman always wore red when she came to destroy.
“I’m your wife,” Camille replied smoothly. “You don’t get to tell me where I can and cannot go. Especially not when you’re f*cking your assistant in our bed.”
Cara’s stomach flipped. So she had seen the photo.
Michael’s silence was confirmation enough.
“I
