Gloria turned at the sound of the door, her expression a mixture of surprise and something else—a flicker of guilt, perhaps? Her hand paused mid-air, the spoon hovering uncertainly as if she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Mr. Whitmore!” Gloria exclaimed, her voice a mix of relief and apprehension. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Michael ignored the greeting. His eyes were locked on the jar in her hand. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice steady but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of anger.