I had always believed betrayal carried its own scent. Not perfume, not cologne—something sharper, something rotten at the edges of sweetness. By now, I could smell it the way sailors smelled storms.

Serena.

She thought she was clever. Thought her careful smiles and painted concern could disguise what she had done. But the world had already revealed her secrets to me—not through her words, but through the camera lens.

Weeks ago, while she fluttered around Julian with her silk dresses and ...