Tall. Elegant. Wrapped in a cream-colored coat that probably costs more than my college tuition. Her posture is straight, chin high, expression carved out of marble.
She turns slowly, eyes sweeping over me from head to toe.
Cold.
Assessing and unimpressed.
I straighten by instinct.
This woman does not smile. She does not greet me. She simply studies me like she is figuring out where I fit in her hierarchy, and she hasn't reached a generous conclusion.
My stomach drops.
This is her.
His mother.
Before I can speak, she does.
"So. You are the girl."
The girl.
Not the wife.
Not Isabella.
Just… the girl.
I swallow. "Good morning. I am Isabella."
She lifts one perfect brow.
"No need for introductions. I know everything."
The way she says it makes my neck prickle. It isn't reassuring.
It's a warning.
She walks toward me, heels tapping lightly on the marble.
"You dress nicely," she says.
Her eyes flick down, then up again.
