The reunion party was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it had become a crime scene.
, usually the rock of the group, was staring at her husband, Karim. The look between them wasn't one of grief; it was a silent pact of silence. The reunion party was supposed to be a fresh start
stood at the center, her face a mask of cold perfection. She straightened her silk dress, her eyes darting toward the balcony. She was the queen of this compound, and queens didn't let scandals ruin their reign. The look between them wasn't one of grief;
Only an hour ago, a body had plummeted from the balcony of a nearby penthouse. The scream was still ringing in Alma’s ears—a jagged sound that sliced through the laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. Now, the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers danced across her white marble walls. She was the queen of this compound, and
Alma looked down at her phone. A message from an unknown number glowed on the screen: “The past doesn’t stay buried in the garden, Alma. It’s sitting at your dinner table.”
She realized then that the fall wasn't just about one person hitting the pavement. It was the beginning of their entire world collapsing. The secrets they had kept for twenty years—the fire, the lies, the betrayal—were no longer ghosts. They were the jury.
was pacing, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knew too much about the arguments overheard in the powder room.