The grand estate of the Wexford family stood like a palace on the hill. Marble pillars, glass chandeliers, and gold-accented halls echoed wealth in every direction. Inside, Jonathan Wexford, a 42-year-old self-made millionaire, straightened his navy tie in the hallway mirror. Every inch of him was perfectly pressed, polished, composed.
His wife, Isabelle, strolled past behind him in a silky cream dress, sipping orange juice from a crystal flute.
“Don’t be late for the board meeting,” she said with a teasing smile. “You know they panic without you.”
Jonathan chuckled lightly, but his eyes lingered on her a little too long. Something in her tone had been distant lately. Something about the way she turned her head when she answered her phone. Something felt off. Still, he brushed it aside, grabbed his briefcase, and moved toward the side door—the one his chauffeur pulled up to…….Read Full Story Here……………………….
