Isobel stood in the center of the penthouse, surrounded by luxury that whispered of old money and new power, and felt like she was suffocating on silk and crystal. The city sprawled beyond the windows like a glittering accusation—beautiful, treacherous, utterly foreign to everything she understood about love and loyalty.
Victoria’s words echoed in the marble silence: We understand each other’s worlds.
She moved through the space like a ghost haunting someone else’s life, touching surfaces that cost more than most people’s yearly wages. The Persian rugs beneath her feet had witnessed more history than her hometown of Townsend would ever know. Art that belonged in museums hung casual as family photos, speaking of a world where million-dollar acquisitions were impulse purchases.
This wasn’
