Years Ago
Morning sunlight spilled across the Belmonte estate, gilding the marble floors and casting long, elegant shadows. Gumamela moved through the halls with practiced grace, her face serene and composed. To any observer, she was the very picture of the dutiful wife—her words gentle, her smile soft, her presence a balm to the household’s lingering tensions.
But beneath the calm exterior, her thoughts churned with storm and fire.
She remembered every syllable of Wile’s cold confession, the way his voice had twisted her father’s death into a tool, a stepping stone. Rage simmered beneath her skin, but she forced her hands to move steadily as she poured coffee, her voice to remain light as she greeted the staff. She could not afford a single misstep. Not now.
At breakfast, her husband
