Dahlia's POV
Isabelle stood before us in a pale yellow designer dress that I recognized from a recent magazine spread. The fabric draped perfectly across her petite frame, and the pearl necklace at her throat completed the picture of refined elegance. Everything about her screamed money and privilege, from her manicured nails to the subtle shimmer of her eyeshadow.
She pressed her lips together, her delicate features twisted with barely contained fury. Those dark eyes bore into me with a mixture of hatred and disbelief. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the sharp edge of accusation.
"You knew they had the wrong person. Why didn't you correct them?"
"Why would I?" My response came out flat and unbothered, which only seemed to fuel her rage.
Color flooded her cheeks as her hands clenched into small fists at her sides. Her entire body vibrated with indignation, like a spoiled child denied her favorite toy. The sight would have been pitiful if it weren't so amusing.
