ISABELLE
The car that pulled up wasn’t the sleek black town car with a driver I’d half-expected. It was Matt himself, behind the wheel of a dark Mercedes, the engine purring softly in the quiet evening.
He didn’t get out. Didn’t honk. Just sat there, engine idling, waiting.
I stood on the sidewalk, frozen for a moment.
Even through the windshield, even in the fading evening light, I could see him clearly. Dark suit, jacket probably discarded somewhere in the back seat, his white shirt crisp against his skin, sleeves rolled to his forearms. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh. His jaw was set. His eyes were fixed directly on me.
He looked… devastating.
I’d seen him just this morning. Had left his house hours ago. But somehow, seeing him now – here, in my sist
