The next morning was painfully quiet. Cynthia walked down the grand staircase of Mike’s penthouse, dressed in a modest cream blouse and high-waisted navy trousers. She'd barely slept, and her eyes, though alert, held the weight of unrest. The light from the crystal chandelier above her bounced off the marble floor as she stepped into the living room.

Isabella and Isla were already seated at the breakfast table, chatting softly over tea and croissants. The moment Cynthia entered, the room shifted. Tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm. Isla looked up and offered a faint smile, but Isabella simply sipped from her porcelain cup, not even acknowledging...