The night after the banquet was anything but restful.
I lay on my bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, unable to banish the thoughts that clawed their way into my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of Isadora’s damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, her wide, startled eyes meeting mine, resurfaced. I clenched my fists, frustrated at myself.
Why can’t I stop thinking about this?
I had worked with countless informants in the past, many of them women with curves designed to distract. They were alluring, bold, and unashamed in their attempts to catch my attention. Yet their beauty had never lingered in my mind for more than a moment.
But Isadora?
Her figure wasn’t extraordinary—at least that’s what I told myself repeatedly. Yet the memory of her standing there in the steam-fi
