ISABELLA
Monday mornings had always been an enemy of mine, but this one felt like a declaration of war. I stood in front of my cracked bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for strangers in dark alleys.
I looked too polished, and too prepared. My still bleached hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place, and my brown eyes normally sharp, looked almost hesitant. It didn’t suit me.
I adjusted the cuffs of my blazer for the fifth time, smoothing down the fabric like it might protest and walk away from me.
The sharp click of my heels on the wooden floor echoed as I paced back to the door. I inhaled slowly, held it, and then exhaled through my nose.
I can do this, and yet, as soon as I opened the door and stepped into
