In a designated room within the tournament arena complex, Isabel stood with her back straight and fists clenched at her sides. Before her stood two familiar women whose expressions made her sick to her stomach.
The first was a woman in her fifties, elegant, with a strong air of authority. Her long, wavy black hair cascaded like a waterfall over her slender shoulders.
Her face was sharp and beautiful, with the same dark brown eyes as Isabel, only more experienced and colder. Her body was impeccably maintained, with voluptuous curves even her tight navy blue business suit struggled to hide. She was like an older, more mature version of Isabel—Amely Mercedes, her mother.
