Mike couldn’t look at her. Not after that slap. Not after the insult that soaked into her skin like blood through linen.

He adjusted his wristwatch, lips tight, voice low. “I have to get to work.”

Cynthia simply nodded.

He stepped past her, hesitant, but didn’t say another word. The front door clicked shut behind him.

She stood alone in the kitchen, the silence so loud it rang in her ears. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry where Isabella had yelled. No. She wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

She climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. The bedroom felt cold despite the warm morning light...