The room was suffocatingly silent.

The opulence of the Richard mansion’s private lounge did nothing to soften the tension crackling in the air. Golden chandeliers shimmered above them, but their glow felt cold and judgmental. Everyone was gathered—Isabella seated in her ivory chaise like a queen presiding over judgment, the board members stiff in their tailored suits, and Cynthia... standing alone in the center like a lamb awaiting slaughter.

Then, Mike pressed play.

The audio filled the room, jarring and painful.

"He's been abusing me. I don’t know what to do anymore... I feel like I’m dying in his house. Every day I wake up praying he won’t touch me....