Back at Mike Richard’s penthouse, silence reigned like a thick fog, wrapping around every corner of the sprawling space.
The only sound was the low hum of the city beyond the glass walls, but even that couldn’t break through the storm inside Mike’s chest.
He sat at the edge of his wine-colored leather couch, a drink in one hand, his phone face down on the table.
The image haunted him—the photo of Cynthia and Collins, her face lit with laughter, her body leaning close to the man Mike had trusted once. Betrayal bit into him, sharp and merciless.
Had she played him? Used him to escape her debts only to crawl back into the arms of that bastard?
His jaw clenched as he downed the rest of the drink.
“Mike,” came a voice, silk-wrapped and poisonous. “Darling, you look like hell.”
He didn’t
