Cynthia’s legs barely carried her as she stumbled away from Isabella’s door. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her fingers trembled like leaves in a storm. The words she had just heard—his groans… her on her knees… the plan to make him forget Cynthia even existed—played in her head like a cruel song on repeat.
They had been plotting this. Laughing at her.
Isabella… and Isla.
She had trusted them. Lived under their roof. Played the perfect little wife.
And Mike—God, had he really let Isla touch him?
She reached her bedroom, shut the door with shaking hands, and locked it quickly. The silence inside offered no comfort. Her eyes darted around the room, panic rising. Was anything in this place real?
Cynthia backed into the vanity, her breath shallow. Her reflection stared back at her
