ISABELLA
New York felt colder after Mexico.
Maybe it was the weather or the silence.
Or it was the fact that Bianca’s laughter still echoed in my head, warm and bright and impossible to forget.
She’d hugged me at the airport like we were sisters already.
“You better visit soon,” she’d said, squeezing me tight. “Or I’ll come back and drag you out myself.”
Then she’d turned to Adrian, wiggled her eyebrows, and asked, “So when’s the wedding?”
Adrian shot her a look that could freeze hell.
Bianca only blew him a kiss and skipped off with Mario, who looked like he’d aged ten years in three days.
I’d laughed.
Adrian hadn’t.
And now, standing inside his penthouse — quiet, sleek, intimidating — I suddenly felt the weight of everything again. The city lights glittered through the floor‑t
