By the time I returned to my studio, the jasmine had followed me in memory.
Not literally. Isabella had been careful enough not to approach me after the gala. She had watched from a distance, soaked in jealousy and expensive white florals, while Damian came apart in front of half the city.
But fear clung to a scent long after a woman left a room.
And Isabella was afraid.
I knew it from the sour edge beneath her perfume, from the bitter metallic note of adrenaline that had cut through the ballroom air the moment Julian named me his future wife. Men like Damian made women like Isabella feel invincible—until they didn’t. Until a ghost walked back into the city with a new name, a new empire, and a better memory than any digital archive.
Fear made people rash.
It made them sloppy.
It mad
