The world outside Daniel’s penthouse was in contrast with what was inside. Inside the penthouse was suffocating. Isabelle stood quietly by the large window, pretending to admire the skyline while watching Daniel from the corner of her eye. He was pacing, clearly agitated, speaking to himself as he read the latest report Ann had handed him. She was always handing him something either reports, files, or ideas. She was always around him, his ears.
Always in the way.
Isabelle clenched her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. She had loved Daniel for years—silently, loyally, foolishly. He had never noticed, not really. Aria had consumed all his affection, and now Ann had consumed all his judgment.
Isabelle had never liked Ann.
At first, she thought it was jealousy, the sharp pang of watchi
