The dining room glowed under the soft flicker of candlelight, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and betrayal. Mike slumped in the chair, his head tilted back, unconscious, his breathing slow and ragged.

Isabella stood near the sideboard, her silk robe clinging to her curves as she poured herself another glass of whiskey, her movements deliberate and calculating.

“You know what needs to be done.”

Isla’s smirk widened, her gaze flicking to Mike’s limp form. “Oh, I know. You want him so worked up he’ll be begging for Cynthia the second he opens his eyes.”

Isabella’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Exactly. I trust what you can...