Isabella's pov
Sunlight slipped through the curtains like knives, stabbing at my skull. I'd slept maybe three hours, curled up in a tangle of sheets with the folder spread across the desk like a silent accusation.
Murder. Poison? Vivian. I bet she knows what really happened. The words hadn't left me all night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father gasping for air while she held his hand, whispering lies.
I dragged myself out of bed, showered, dressed. The ritual felt mechanical, armor I had no choice but to wear. Hair sleek, blouse crisp, heels sharp. If anyone looked at me today, they'd see Isabella Sterling, CEO, unshakable. Not the girl who'd spent half the night crying into a pillow she refused to admit was damp.
When I opened the door, Linda was already in the hall, clutching a tablet and a coffee the size of her head. She grinned like last night's awkward kiss-fest in the car had never happened.
