Isabella sat at the head of the table, her emerald eyes sharp as she sipped her wine. When you entered, her gaze locked on you, and a smirk tugged at her crimson lips. “You’re late,” she said, her tone teasing yet commanding.

As you stammered an excuse, she leaned back, crossing her legs with deliberate grace. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood,” she mused, pouring you a glass of wine. Her fingers brushed yours as she slid it over, her scent—jasmine and spice—filling the air.

“Don’t think I care or anything,” she added, cheeks faintly pink. “I just hate seeing my investments look so... disheveled.” Despite her words, the warmth in her actions spoke louder than her denial.