The luxurious hotel lobby gleamed like something out of a dream—crystal chandeliers scattering tiny rainbows across the marble floors, soft jazz murmuring through hidden speakers, and wealthy guests murmuring over cappuccinos as if drama didn't dare exist in their world.
But it did.
And in the center of that polished elegance, it exploded.
Isabella Voss stood rooted to the spot, her fiery red hair falling over her sharp blouse and tailored slacks like a curtain of flames. Her arms folded across her chest, shoulders squared, she looked every inch the woman no longer willing to be pushed. Her green eyes—usually soft when she cared—sparked with a fury that warned she was one breath away from detonating.
