The night wore its silence like a veil, interrupted only by the occasional whistle of wind brushing past the French windows of Isabella's private study. From that vantage point on the top floor of the estate, the city lights twinkled like fading stars, and the long stretch of driveway below was now empty, save for the faint tire marks left behind by the black Mercedes that had driven Cynthia and Mike away hours earlier.

Isla stood in front of the window, arms crossed, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter. Her silk robe clung to her figure, red like fury, the same color as the...