Carlos's POV
The message came through at 8:47 a.m., just as I was halfway down the hall toward Isabella's office. A single buzz on my phone. A security alert from her private line. Unregistered sender. Encrypted origin. Message deleted within seconds of being opened.
I didn't need to ask to know what it meant. Someone had found a way to reach her again.
I quickened my pace. The sound of my shoes on the marble echoed against the sterile quiet of Sterling Tower's executive floor. Her office door was closed, blinds half drawn. When I stepped in, she was standing by the window, back straight, face unreadable like an actress who'd rehearsed this role her whole life.
"Bad morning?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She turned, eyes sharp, chin lifted just slightly. "Define bad."
Her voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor under the steel. The kind that only someone like me—someone paid to notice—would catch.
