Steam curled against the glass panels of the bathroom as water trickled down Mike’s bare back.

The marble tiles beneath his feet were cold, grounding him as he stood beneath the hot spray. The silence in his bathroom was deafening—no voices, no lies, no betrayals. Just the slow, steady drip of regret.

He closed his eyes.

Cynthia’s face haunted him in the stillness. The way she had stood quietly when Isabella tore her down with venomous words. The way she hadn't run, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cursed. She just stood there, wide-eyed, broken. And yet—after everything he had done—she still helped him. She still stood by him.

Why?

He pressed his...