The room hadn't fully recovered from the intensity of the last meeting when the door flung open once more, jolting Isabella to attention.
Isla stormed in like a hurricane in heels, her hair tousled, face red with fury. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her designer coat fluttering behind her like a cape of chaos.
“You will not believe what I just discovered,” she spat, eyes wild as she stomped across the room, ignoring the empty wine glass and Collins’s recently vacated seat. “You need to get your head out of your delusion, Isabella. That girl—Cynthia—is playing your son like a damn violin.”
Isabella blinked, her calm demeanor barely shifting. “Good evening to you too, Isla,” she said dryly, folding her arms.
But Isla didn’t bite at the sarcasm. Her emotions were a whirlwind,
