Isabella's pov
"This is Marlowe."
His voice was low, gravelly, like he'd smoked half his life and didn't regret a minute of it.
"This is Isabella Sterling," I said, my throat dry. "You've been sending me messages."
A pause. The sound of a lighter clicking, then a slow exhale of smoke. "I was wondering how long it'd take you to call."
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"What I want," he said evenly, "is to keep you alive. What I have… isn't for a phone line. Too many ears."
I gripped the receiver tighter. "You think my father's death wasn't an accident."
Another pause. He didn't confirm. Didn't deny. Instead: "Meet me. Two days. Discretion required. There's a coffee shop on 54th and Madison, back booth. Noon sharp. If you're late, I walk. Come alone"
I hated the way my pulse leapt, like I'd just been given orders instead of an invitation. "Why should I trust you?"
