The sound of the front door closing echoed faintly through the penthouse.
Cynthia stood frozen at the door, heart thudding, lips trembling.
She hadn’t expected Mike to return so soon. Her bags, half-packed, sat like exposed secrets on the marble countertop. After the storm of Isla’s venomous words—words that painted her as nothing but a gold-digger—Cynthia had decided she would stay at Ava’s place for a while. Just to breathe.
But now he was home.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and heavy.
Mike entered the room, dressed in a charcoal suit, his tie loosened, his brows drawn in a furrow. His gaze swept over her, then her bags.
“What the hell is this?” he growled, voice tight.
Cynthia took a step back, her hands shaking. “I—I was going to call you. I just need some space for a few day
