Somewhere deep inside the Jenkins estate—a home wrapped in cold stone, manicured hedges, and generations of pride—Cassandra Jenkins stormed down the grand staircase in a silk robe and slippers, her phone clenched tightly in one hand.
"Lewis!" she called, voice sharp with disbelief. "Lewis, you need to see this—now!"
Lewis Jenkins sat in his study, a tumbler of aged bourbon in one hand, his gaze fixed on stock reports he barely understood anymore.
The collapse had begun, quiet and patient—like termites inside a wall.
He didn't look up. "What is it this time?"
His wife marched in, shoved the phone into his line of sight, and hissed, "That… is your daughter."
Lewis squinted at the screen.
There it was.
A freeze-frame that hit harder than any scandal ever could: Julie, tear-stained and trembling, outside some elite university building, with Roman Thompson—the Roman Thompson—bending over her like she was the only woman that mattered.
Roman's hand cupped hers protectively.
