Their meeting felt like a twisted cosmic prank.

Dressed in a soft yellow gown that highlighted her flawless complexion, Sophia radiated a deceptive purity.

Isabella knew better. She saw right through that innocent mask to the cunning soul beneath.

“Hello, Isabella,” Sophia began, her voice coated with fake sympathy, lips curved in a taunting smirk. “You look completely exhausted. Rough night?”

Isabella’s fingers tightened into a fist, nails digging sharply into her palm.

She said nothing, only shot Sophia an icy look before attempting to step past her.

Sophia’s voice rose, deliberately provocative. “Well, of course. Any woman would lose sleep knowing her husband spent the night in someone else’s bed.” Her tone dripped with venom.

Isabella froze. She lifted her chin, eyes blazing as they locked with Sophia’s.

Rage burned through her, hot and swift.

“So what?” she snapped, each word sharp as broken glass. “You’re still just the pitiful mistress.”

For a second, Sophia’s confident smile faltered. But she recovered quickly.

Leaning in, she whispered into Isabella’s ear, her voice a low, poisonous hiss. “Say what you want. In the end, it’s Ethan’s heart that matters.”

A cold dread swept down Isabella’s spine. Sophia’s words cut deep, twisting inside her.

She couldn’t bear to think about Ethan’s true feelings. Or what might come next.

Watching Isabella’s face pale, Sophia smiled in satisfaction.

This was exactly what she wanted—to see Isabella suffer, pushed to the edge, forced to surrender.

With a dismissive wave, Sophia announced, “I have places to be. I’m leaving.”

She turned sharply and strode away, her heels echoing down the hall.

Isabella sank into her chair, emotions churning.

When she entered the office, an awkward hush fell over her colleagues. They avoided her gaze, as if that could erase the earlier gossip.

Lost in her thoughts, Isabella barely noticed the shift in atmosphere.

It wasn’t until a nervous colleague approached her desk that she snapped back to reality. The woman cleared her throat awkwardly, struggling for words.

“What’s going on?” Isabella asked, brow furrowed.

Her colleagues exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, one stepped forward, cheeks flushed. “Isabella, we owe you an apology,” she said, avoiding eye contact.

“We were wrong. We shouldn’t have assumed,” another added.

“We thought you and Mr. Blackwood… that you were the other woman…”

“We’re sorry for jumping to conclusions. Please forgive us.”