Cynthia couldn’t stop trembling as she stepped into Mike’s penthouse later that evening. Her chest was tight, her palms damp with sweat, and every step she took felt like she was dragging chains behind her.
The lift had felt endless, her heartbeat pounding in her ears with each second. She had spent hours walking around, too ashamed to go back, too broken to stay away.
Every word Mike had said earlier echoed through her mind, slicing into her like a knife. She needed to fix this. She had to.
But the moment the door shut behind her, the air shifted.
She froze.
Isla was there—lounging like a queen on the armrest of the sofa, her silk robe loosely tied and her hair still slightly tousled. Her smug expression was a slap in the face. And Mike…
Mike wasn’t angry anymore.
That was the par
