Chapter 3

Alex shot up instantly, his face plastering on an ingratiating smile so servile it made Isabella’s stomach cramp. "Olivia, darling, you’re early. Didn't the driver take you to Bergdorf Goodman? We were just discussing... business."

Olivia pulled out a chair and sat down with languid indifference, barely acknowledging Isabella’s existence. "Business? I thought you were doing charity work. I heard she’s been lingering around you for five years? Where is that outfit from? An outlet mall? God, Alex, your taste concerns me. It’s practically visual pollution."

Isabella watched them quietly. She noticed Alex subconsciously tugging at his cuff, trying to hide a slightly scuffed cufflink—a Tiffany silver piece Isabella had bought him three years ago, saving two months' salary to afford. Now, next to the boulder-sized pink diamond on Olivia’s engagement finger, it looked pathetic and absurd.

"Miss Winters," Isabella spoke, her voice steady but her eyes sharpening with an imperceptible edge. "The suit is indeed from a discount rack. mostly because the bulk of my salary went toward correcting Mr. Hawke’s 'minor slips' in the financial statements. Like categorizing his private parties in Miami as 'client development expenses.'"

Alex’s face drained of color. His hand jerked, sloshing red wine onto the white tablecloth like a drop of blood. "Isabella! Shut up! Just sign it!"

Olivia arched a brow, letting out a shrill, cold laugh. "Looks like the little country stray has claws. Alex, make her sign and get lost. I don't want this kind of underclass debris on the guest list for our engagement party at The Pierre."

Isabella picked up the Montblanc pen and scrawled her signature across the agreement. The scratching of the nib against the paper was piercingly loud in the awkward silence.

"As you wish." Isabella stood, sliding the agreement back but leaving the envelope with the check untouched. She picked up her worn leather bag and looked down at Alex. "Your steak is cut, Mr. Hawke. I hope you get used to cutting it yourself, or... perhaps Miss Winters can assist. Though I suspect she struggles to hold a fork, considering the servants likely tie her shoelaces."

"You..." Olivia stood up in a huff, the hyaluronic acid in her cheeks threatening to migrate.

"Goodbye." Isabella turned and strode toward the door.

As she passed the briefcase Alex had placed on the empty chair, her movement was a blur, too fast for anyone to register. It was a sleight of hand mastered in boarding school to evade dorm inspections. Her fingers, like a magician's, slid into the half-open zipper, extracted a blue folder, and slipped it into the inner lining of her coat in one fluid motion.

It was the file she had organized late last night—draft documents detailing how Hawke Capital was hiding debt through shell companies in the Cayman Islands. It was Alex’s most fatal secret, evidence of a crime he was desperate to destroy but hadn't yet shredded.

Pushing open the heavy oak door, the November wind hit her face, messing up her hair. Isabella inhaled the freezing air deeply. Her lungs stung, but the pain was clarifying.

Behind her, the restaurant buzzed on, Alex busy placating the furious Olivia. But Isabella Rossi, the submissive, penny-pinching assistant, had died right there on the cobblestones of Stone Street.

She raised a hand and hailed a yellow cab.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asked in a heavy accent, sounding exhausted.

Isabella glanced back at the skyscrapers piercing the clouds, her eyes colder than the winter wind.

"Brooklyn," she said, pressing her hand against the cold file over her heart. "Williamsburg. Bedford Avenue."

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