Isabelle smoothed her blouse for the third time as she stepped out of the elevator and into the warm hush of the rooftop bar Marcus had picked. The soft hum of music, the low chatter of polished strangers, and the skyline stretching wide behind glass walls should’ve been impressive—romantic, even—but all she felt was a coil of dread tightening low in her stomach.
She spotted him near the edge, seated at a table two steps from the railing, city lights flickering behind him like the backdrop of a film. He looked like he belonged there—shirt crisp, sleeves rolled just enough to be casual, glass in hand. When his eyes met hers, his expression didn’t give much away. Not anger. Not relief. Just… wait.
“Hey,” he said as she approached, standing politely, pulling her chair out.
“Hey,” she retur
