Seven sharp

The next morning, Isabella stood in front of Jaxon Corp’s towering glass building, her thin coat doing little against the early New York chill. Frost clung faintly to the edges of the pavement, shimmering in the pale light. The street smelled of roasted chestnuts from a cart a block away, mingling with the sharp tang of exhaust from passing taxis.

She was fifteen minutes early. The city was still stretching awake, but she was already here. She was not going to risk being “late once” and “gone.” Not after yesterday.

Her breath curled in the cold air as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Above her, the building’s steel-and-glass facade mirrored the restless clouds drifting across the sky. Somewhere inside, behind all that gleaming order, was Damian Knight.

Her gloved hands tightened around the strap of the small leather bag slung over her shoulder. It held almost everything she considered essential: a single pen with fading ink, a worn notebook whose spine was barely hol