Isla
The drive to the address took nearly forty minutes. The city’s sound, cars honking, crosswalks blinking, the sound of conversation spilling out from cafés—felt almost soothing after weeks of hiding from my own emotions.
When I reached the restaurant, I blinked up at it, modern glass walls, soft music spilling out through the open doors, people laughing over afternoon wine. Not what I expected for a “simple lifestyle shoot,” but it looked nice enough.
Inside, the scent of citrus and something floral filled the air. My fingers tightened around my camera bag as I scanned the place, waiting for someone to wave or call my name.
Then I heard it—
“Isla Hart?” A voice said.
“Yes.” I said, turning around.
And when I did, it’s nobody but Isabella, Silas’s wife.
For a moment, I thought
