POV: Isabella
The promised “talk” was a trap dressed in daylight and mahogany.
Isabella stood in the doorway of Xavier’s office, the morning sun a brutal spotlight. He was at his desk, but he wasn’t alone. David Chen, the lawyer with the calm, unreadable face from the stairwell phone call, sat in the guest chair. A document, slim and menacing, lay centered on the polished wood between them.
No. This was a transaction.
“Isabella,” Xavier said. His voice was a formal blanket, smothering the memory of how he’d said her name on the roof. He didn’t stand. “Please, sit.”
David offered a neutral nod. “Ms. Hart.”
Her legs carried her forward on autopilot. She sat in the chair beside David, facing Xavier across the expanse of his desk. The distance felt oceanic. Her eyes dropped to the paper.
