On stage, Sydney looked at me with smug satisfaction, her eyes practically saying, I've won.
The footage was from last night—inside the master bedroom.
A man lay bare-chested on top of me, his back to the camera, but my face was crystal clear.
In that dimly lit room, a widow whose husband had just died, tangled up with an unknown man in bed—what else could they think I was doing?
It screamed one thing: adultery.
The murmurs erupted instantly, boiling over like a pot left unattended.
"Whoa... Is this video real? Isn't she the daughter of the Molina family, the widow of Herrera heir?"
"Told you—these wealthy families are a mess."
"Who's the guy?"
"Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I'm starting to wonder if her husband's death was really an accident..."
Each stare cut into me like a blade, stripping away my dignity, as if they wanted me naked and kneeling before them, confessing I was nothing but a whore.
I trembled from head to toe, my throat was parched.
The overhead lights blazed down on me; the entire room waited for my response.
