The name Isabella Croft landed not like a bomb, but like a shard of ice piercing the heart of our fragile peace. It explained everything — the personal venom, the sophisticated resources, the theatrical cruelty. This wasn’t a business move. It was a woman scorned, and in my experience, there was no vengeance more patient, more creative, or more absolute.
Lysander was on his feet in an instant, a predator who’d finally caught the scent. The post-passion languor was gone, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. He strode to his console, his fingers flying across the screen, pulling up files and images I’d never seen.
“Isabella,” he said, the name a curse. He turned the screen toward me.
The woman staring back was breathtaking. Not in a soft, approachable way, but like a perfectly cut diamo
