The next morning bloomed with deceptive calm. Sunlight spilled across the mansion’s polished floors, casting long shadows through the glass panels that lined the hall. Downstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and buttered croissants filled the air, but tension soured the atmosphere.

Isabella sat on the velvet couch, clad in a silk robe, sipping tea with an irritated elegance. Next to her, Isla crossed her long legs, her face twisted with poorly concealed disdain.

"Can you believe she got away with it?" Isabella snapped, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink. "That little tramp stood there last night like some savior, acting like she didn’t know anything."

"I...