The city’s skyline shimmered under the night, lights reflecting off glass towers like molten gold. Bella had followed Victoria’s texts reluctantly, each message laced with false warmth: “Bella, we need to talk. Come to the rooftop. I want to reconcile.” Her instincts screamed danger, but a part of her—the part that had spent so long trying to believe in the woman’s kindness—urged her to go.
The elevator doors opened to the penthouse rooftop. Cool air brushed Bella’s skin, carrying the faint scent of rain and city grime. She stepped cautiously toward Victoria, who stood near the railing, arms outstretched as if embracing the night.
“Bella,” Victoria cooed, her tone silky, disarmingly maternal. “I know we’ve had… disagreements. Misunderstandings. I just want peace between us.”
Bella’s pul
