Cynthia’s fingers tightened around the edge of the couch as the elevator doors slid open.
Isabella Richard stepped into the penthouse like she was stepping into a boardroom—sharp, commanding, and terrifyingly poised. Her black coat swayed behind her, her heels clicking with purpose. Behind her was Isla, equally elegant, though her smile held something darker—mockery.
Cynthia stood immediately, hands trembling at her sides.
“Good evening, ma’am,” she said quietly.
Isabella didn’t answer. She merely scanned the room, then turned her cold gaze to Cynthia. “So, this is the girl.”
Cynthia’s throat went dry. She lowered her eyes.
“She can’t even look at me,” Isabella said with a scoff. “That’s fitting.”
“Be nice, Miss” Isla said, though her tone was anything but gentle. “She might faint.”
