Narrator's voice
Night pressed against the penthouse windows like a dark, polished mirror, turning the skyline into a blurred arrangement of glittering teeth. Isabella Moretti stood with one hand on her hip and the other loosely holding a glass of something expensive she didn't actually care to finish. She cared only about the screen in front of her.
The documentary teaser replayed for the third time.
And she smiled.
Not with excitement.
Not with triumph.
With satisfaction — the kind that came when a plan unfolded exactly as expected.
Her reflection in the window smirked back at her. Flawless hair. Bold red lips. A dress that whispered more than it revealed. She liked looking untouchable, because the Romanos needed to believe she was exactly that.
Her phone buzzed.
One message flashed:
"Well done."
No name.
No avatar.
Just the message.
She didn't need a name.
She knew exactly who it was.
