The jewelry boutique on Rue Saint-Honoré was alive with a quiet kind of wealth—the kind that whispered rather than screamed, where diamonds weren’t just accessories but statements of power.
Isabella Richard stepped inside, the soft scent of expensive perfume and polished glass filling her senses. She barely glanced at the rows of necklaces and rings; she had enough of them to last three lifetimes. This wasn’t a shopping trip—it was merely something to pass the time.
And then she saw her.
A young woman in head-to-toe luxury, bouncing from one display to another with the kind of energy Isabella rarely saw in the elite.
“Oh, this is sick,” the girl gasped, holding up a Cartier emerald-cut bracelet, twisting it in the light. “Like, literally insane.”
She turned to the sales assistant, who
