The tension in the house had been thick all morning, the kind of quiet that carried weight.
Isabelle had felt it the second she stepped into the kitchen—Sophia’s sharp movements as she made coffee, the way her fingers curled around the mug a little too tightly.
Something was brewing.
And then the sound of heels clicking against the marble floor approached.
Isabelle turned just in time to see her.
Victoria Langford strode into the kitchen like she owned the place, her presence loud even in silence. She was dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse, perfectly tailored pants, and heels that probably cost more than some people’s rent. Every inch of her screamed polished, poised, untouchable.
Sophia’s grip on her coffee mug tightened.
“Good morning,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with a
