Tristan’s P.O.V

I stood there, arms crossed, watching Sophia with all the smug satisfaction I had prepared for this day. She was supposed to be broken by now. Humiliated. Maybe even crying. I had imagined it—no, relished it—a thousand times over: her crawling back, apologizing for the hell she put Gabriella through, for daring to ruin our lives with her schemes.

I wanted her to beg. I wanted her to bleed. And after that? I wanted her to suffer the final humiliation of ...