The bedroom was a mess.
Isabelle stood in the center of it, hands on her hips, surrounded by the casualties of her indecision. Dresses lay draped across the bed, shoes scattered on the floor, and a pile of jewelry glinted from the dresser in a tangled heap.
“You know,” Sophia’s voice drifted from the doorway, thick with amusement, “for a woman who claims this is just dinner, you’re preparing like it’s the Met Gala.”
Isabelle shot her a look. “I don’t need commentary right now.”
“Oh, but that’s my specialty,” Sophia teased, stepping fully into the room. She flopped onto the bed, narrowly avoiding a little black dress. “It’s been ages since you went on an actual date. I’m invested.”
“It’s not a date,” Isabelle argued, rifling through the closet. “It’s… dinner with a friend.”
Sophia sno
