Isabel’s POV
Cynthia strides into the room with calculated grace, her entrance commanding attention as if the entire event were curated solely for her. Her eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, the air between us feels heavy, laden with unspoken tension. Her lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s not one of warmth—no, it’s deliberate, sharp, meant to cut.
Then, as though dismissing me entirely, she glides toward Alexander. With a practiced elegance, she loops her hand around his arm, her fingers curling possessively, her head tilting just slightly as she flashes a radiant smile for anyone who might be watching.
I laugh softly under my breath, swirling my drink as I watch him. The tension in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw—it’s all too familiar, a silent plea to escape her grasp.
