Paper Cuts and Proclamations
Manhattan mornings usually smelled like ambition and burnt coffee, but today the office reeked of regret and toner fumes. Isabella’s desk had become a warzone of sticky notes and half-empty coffee cups, each bearing the ghost of Ace’s lipstick smudge from three days ago. She’d been avoiding his office like it was rigged with tripwires, but the universe—or more accurately, Melissa—had other plans.
“He’s asking for the Berlin files,” Melissa hissed, shoving a manila folder into Isabella’s hands. “And before you ask, no, you can’t ‘accidentally’ shred them.”
Isabella glared at the folder like it had personally offended her. “He’s been back for two days and hasn’t said a word. Now he wants *files*?”
“Maybe he’s writing you a sonnet in the margins.”
“Mo
