The sound of the shower running down the hall was a dull, constant roar, but to Clara, it sounded like a ticking clock.

She stood in the hallway of the townhouse she shared with Simon, her heart hammering against her ribs with frantic, desperate force. It was 8:32 AM.

Clara’s thumb hovered over her phone screen. With a microscopic twitch, she ended the active call with Victor, plunging the device into her pocket. She forced her chest to rise and fall in a steady, measured rhythm. She was an executive chef; she thrived in the chaos of

The silence in the penthouse was suffocating, heavy with the sheer weight of Victor’s fury. He stood inches from Clara, his chest heaving under his crisp white shirt, his eyes dark and hollowed out by betrayal.

Clara didn’t back away. Any other person might have run