Isabella Richard had never looked so wretched.

Her usually immaculate face was marred by a bruise on her jaw, her silver-streaked hair a tangled mess. The elegant, pearl-studded blouse she wore the day she disappeared was now stained with sweat and dust, her arms tied securely to the cold iron arms of the chair.

But none of that dulled the venom in her eyes.

The moment Ryan ripped the gag from her mouth and pulled off the blindfold, Isabella blinked at the light, then looked around with contempt. Her gaze landed on Cynthia—and despite her condition, the corners of her mouth curled into a scornful smirk.

“Well, well…” she rasped,...