He didn't answer. His hand slipped into his pocket, drawing out his phone. And he unlocked the screen, thumb gliding with efficient precision, before turning the phone toward me.
The video played.
Two men appeared, seated upright in chairs.
Both stared into the camera with rigid posture, their hands clasped tightly together on their laps. Their voices were hoarse but clear, the words rolling out one after another in a strangely rehearsed cadence:
"We're sorry, Miss Isabella. We didn't mean it. We should never have touched you. We'll never forgive ourselves for it. Please…"
The second one stumbled over his words, voice cracking as he pushed through them faster, almost frantic: "…please know we regret everything we did. You didn't deserve that. We were wrong."
I froze, my lips parting.
For a long moment, I couldn't look away from the screen. And then, slowly, my gaze dragged up to him.
My blood turned to ice.
