ISABELLA
Three days after the FBI interview, I was standing in my studio at two in the afternoon, paintbrush suspended halfway to canvas, when the security alarm chimed. Not the harsh blare of an emergency, but the soft tone that meant someone had entered the penthouse.
Alexander wasn't due back from his meetings until five. My pulse spiked as I set down my brush, wiping paint-stained fingers on my smock. The rational part of my brain knew our security was impenetrable—James had assured us of that repeatedly since the federal investigation began. But rational thought had little power over the primitive fear that someone had finally breached our sanctuary.
"Isabella?" Alexander's voice called from the foyer, rough with exhaustion and something else I couldn't immediately identify.
Relief flooded through me so quickly my knees went weak. "In the studio," I called back, already moving toward the door to meet him.
He appeared in the hallway still wearing his charcoal business suit, but h
