The Richard estate in Paris was a masterpiece of quiet opulence—marble floors that gleamed like liquid silver, chandeliers that dripped crystals, and a private garden that once hosted royalty.
Isabella Richard sat in her drawing room, a glass of red wine in hand, her fingers resting lightly against the rim. The sun had long set, and the room was bathed in a golden glow from the fireplace.
Her mind, however, was far from the luxury around her.
She had met Isla Brown today.
And she had seen potential.
The kind of potential that could erase the mistake her son had made by marrying Cynthia Taylor.
Her lips pursed at the thought of that name. Cynthia was ordinary. A nobody from a family riddled with debt and bad decisions. A girl who had done nothing to deserve the Richard name.
But Isla
