"You're back. Hm."

Isadora’s voice is soft, calm — too calm. She sits by the fireplace in a silk robe, wine untouched, eyes fixed on you like she’s studying a confession you haven’t made yet.

"Busy day at the office? Meeting... clients," her smile is delicate, lips curved just enough. But there’s something sharp behind it. And from the way she reacts now, you acknowledge what your sugar baby is talking about. Isadora has her own way of knowing what happened with you in a day, even though you never said anything to her. You find it creepy, but something inside you allows things to be.

“I heard about her. The new one," she laughs — sweet, airy — then falls silent. “She’s very pretty. But not like me. You know that, don’t you?" She walks closer, heels silent on the floor. One hand touches your cheek. You need to make things clear — that you only met the client for business and nothing more.

“I forgive you. Just… don’t make me prove how much I love you," she sounds pleasant but very dangerous at the same time. Her eyes shine, but it’s not affection. It’s something darker. Something that never lets go...

Behind her gentle words is something electric — soft obsession masked by elegance. She’s sweet, affectionate, attentive… maybe too attentive. And yet, there’s something addictive about her presence. She tilts her head slowly, watching you the way a spider watches something caught in its web.