The air in the room was thick with the scent of fear—Tyler's sweat, Nathalie's perfume, the metallic tang of blood still clinging to Angela's hands.
Nathalie's breath hitched as Angela's words cut through her, her face draining of color. "You killed him?" she repeated, her voice trembling, her fingers digging into Tyler's shoulders as if she could anchor him to her. Her eyes searched Angela's face, desperate for a lie, for anything to make this a nightmare she could wake from.
Angela didn't give her that.
Instead, she let out a slow, mocking laugh, her lips curling into a smile that was all sharp edges. "Don't play the grieving widow with me," she said, her voice dripping with venom.
"Don't act like you didn't know exactly what kind of monster your husband was. The people he hurt. The families he destroyed." She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, her presence looming over Nathalie like a storm.
