The morning sun crawled across the high glass windows of Isabella Richard's penthouse, but no warmth touched her soul. She sat in the middle of her pristine living room, surrounded by silence and failure. Not even the ticking of the antique wall clock could drown out the storm in her chest.

Everything was falling apart.

Her plans, her control, her carefully constructed empire of manipulation—dismantled, piece by humiliating piece.

Isabella clenched her jaw, her hands resting on the arms of the velvet armchair, fingers digging into the fabric like claws. The only thing she had left was her bitterness, her desire for vengeance.

And Cynthia.

That girl. That unfortunate, low-born...