The pounding grew louder, heavier.
Flashbulbs cut through the blinds like lightning, every strike followed by muffled voices calling James’s name. The sound didn’t belong here—not in this quiet house that had once been a sanctuary. Now it felt like a crime scene waiting to be photographed.
“James!”
“Mr. James, we just need a statement!”
“Is it true your wife leaked the footage and also reported you to your company?”
Each question hit the air like a bullet.
James stood frozen by the window, his fingers gripping the curtain edge so tight his knuckles turned white. His reflection glared back at him—sweat on his temples, collar wrinkled, eyes wide with the kind of fear that only comes when you’ve lost control of your own story.
“Mariam,” he said quietly, without turning. “You did
