Chapter 89 Rosalind's Ultimate Betrayal

The screen flickered. The network logo dissolved into a glittering set—plush chairs, polished floors, a wide-angle camera sweeping across a well-dressed audience. Then came the soft orchestral cue that always signaled something scandalous was about to unfold. Genevieve leaned forward on the couch, a frown tugging at her brows. There, in a blood-red dress that clung to her like a weapon, sat Rosalind. Her honey-blonde hair, artfully curled, glistened beneath the stage lights. Her lips were painted the color of bruised roses. She looked radiant—and smug.