Paris, France.

Isabella Richard sat in the dimly lit lounge of her penthouse, a glass of red wine resting in her manicured fingers. The Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance, its golden lights casting a haunting reflection on the floor-to-ceiling windows. But Isabella wasn’t admiring the view.

Her mind was elsewhere—back in New York, tangled in the mess her son had created.

Her grip on the wineglass tightened. Married.

Mike had married.

And not just to anyone.

To her.

Cynthia Taylor.

The mere thought of the name sent a sharp wave of fury through her. Isabella had spent decades protecting the Richard empire, ensuring that no one—no one—could ever threaten...