The rain continued its assault against the windows, the metronomic drumming providing a soundtrack to the chaos that had erupted moments before. Isabella stood alone in the trashed hotel suite, staring at the aftermath—the overturned coffee table, the wine soaking into the cream carpet, the single shoe Liam had lost in the struggle. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed her hair back from her face.
"It's not too late to come home," David had said.
Home. As if they'd ever had such a thing between them. Their marriage had been built on adrenaline and ambition, punctuated by private islands and penthouse suites—extravagant way stations, never a home.
Isabella moved toward the window, her reflection fragmenting over the cityscape below. Behind her, on the side table that had somehow remained upright during the struggle, sat a small velvet box she hadn't noticed until now. It hadn't been there before the attack.
