The air was heavy—so heavy Cynthia could hardly breathe. She stood frozen behind the half-open door, her body pressed into the cool wall, praying it would swallow her whole. The soft murmur of voices drew her attention inward, to the dimly lit study just beyond the hallway. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She had only wanted to clear her head, but what she stumbled upon made her blood run cold.

Inside, two silhouettes moved beneath the golden glow of a crystal chandelier—Collins dressed too casually for someone who'd vanished from her life without remorse, and Isabella, Mike’s elegantly ruthless mother. The sight of them together in that room—conspiring, relaxed—made Cynthia’s...