"What are you still doing there?" Isabella called out, her voice ringing through the air like a slap. There was no polite tone, no fake sweetness. Just blunt, unapologetic sass.
Glimora, tucked in her lap, blinked up like, Oop—mama's in a mood again.
A pause.
Then finally, from the other side of the curtain, came a hesitant voice.
"I'm here for Ophelia."
Isabella's eyes narrowed.
Oh? That got her attention. She gently shifted Glimora off her lap with a pat on the head.
"Come in then," she said, sitting up straighter and folding her arms with the air of a queen granting a favor.
The curtain rustled before parting—and in stepped the man.
Tall. Ridiculously tall. His frame was broad, skin sun-kissed, hair dark and swept back like he'd wrestled the wind and won. His eyes held a stormy sort of calm, like he belonged in a city where the wind never slept.
But Isabella?
She was unimpressed.
