The tension hung in the air like a storm cloud as the bodyguard's face reddened at Isabelle's question. I watched him carefully, noting how his hand twitched toward his side—a telltale sign of someone used to reaching for a weapon when challenged.
"Miss LeRoux cannot be in the same frame as... ordinary people," he said, his eyes flicking dismissively between Isabelle and me. "It dilutes the brand image."
I couldn't help but laugh, which only made his scowl deepen.
"Something funny?" he demanded.
"Just thinking about how fragile this 'brand image' must be," I replied, taking another bite of my lobster with deliberate slowness.
The masked woman—Vivian LeRoux—stepped forward, her perfume wafting over our table like an invasive cloud. "Castro, handle this," she commanded before turning away.
