More than the physical sting that still lingered on her cheek, it was the deep, burning humiliation that refused to fade.
Never in her life had Isabella Delacroix imagined being struck by a younger woman—and in front of two of the most influential families in the capital, no less.
And to top it all off, her husband had done nothing at all to defend her. He had remained standing there like a drenched cat—passive, silent, and utterly ineffectual—while she endured the humiliation alone.
The contrast burned inside her like a raging molten.
Why was it that some women, like Daniella Torres Mendoza, could behave however they pleased, lash out without restraint, and still command such unwavering loyalty from their husbands? Why wasn't Alfred as fiercely protective as Santiago, who seemed to grant his wife the freedom to do almost anything she wished, standing behind her without hesitation?
