The grandfather clock in the drawing room struck twelve with slow, heavy chimes that echoed through the silent bungalow. Sophia lay rigid in the guest-room bed, the mosquito net swaying faintly in the ceiling fan’s breeze. She hadn’t slept. Not even close.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw the diary pages—Victor’s crude, hungry handwriting spelling out exactly how he liked to use a woman. How he liked to make her beg. How he liked to fill her until she leaked for hours. And every time her thighs shifted against each other, the damp cotton of her panty rubbed her swollen clit and sent a fresh jolt of shameful heat through her core.