The man who had watched them from the alley slipped through the rain-soaked streets, silent as a snake. His orders were clear: observe, record, deliver. When he arrived at the candlelit parlor where Isabella waited, she was already sipping wine, her lips painted crimson like blood on snow.
“Well?” she asked, setting down her glass.
“They’re reunited,” the spy murmured. “I saw him pull her into his car. He kissed her. Not like an ally… like a man starved.”
A smile curved across Isabella’s face, cold and victorious. “Perfect. Damian thinks his secret is safe, but the truth is always a blade—and I know exactly where to cut.”
She penned a note with her elegant hand, a whisper of ink that would ignite a storm: Damian is compromised. His weakness has returned. Use it.
The letter was sealed
