Romans & histoires Clove Isabelle Fuhrman

"The flavours you asked for are yours and the others are for Isabella" "Thanks"

Carmen stepped forward, bringing out a folder I actually didn't notice that she was holding and placed it on the table, “This is a list of the people who will be at the party, you can check them out. Their names are included. And don't worry, even if you're unable to recognise them all at once, Isla will be there to help you. Isla is recognised as a higher maid in the Valerius family. Once they see her, they'll know that you're backed up by the Valerius Family. Information about that family is there as well, make sure to read it carefully.” Carmen gestured toward the open wardrobe. “Change into the gown. I’ll have the driver ready in eight hours. The press will be at the entrance, but don’t

"That would be a sentencing I would accept with my head held high and take as a badge of honor," she whispered with feelings. The words and the manner in which she said them, triggered something fierce inside Cole. He leaned over her until his face was just an inch away from hers and said, "You know what? Isabelle, Alpha of the Wulfclan of the Brokenridge Furs, I love you too, and I will be damned if I let anyone take you from me."

“You didn’t suffer any grievances, did you?” Her question hung in the air, thick with meaning. I shook my head, forcing a smile. “No, I didn’t.” She glanced at Russo, the familiarity between them almost too natural. “If you suffered any grievances, you must say so, or Russo won’t let me off the hook.” Russo chuckled, a sound that grated against my nerves. “Who would dare bully you? Me? Your hordes of fans would kill me without thinking twice.” “Oh right, I haven’t introduced you two yet. Cleo, meet my best friend, Isabelle. Isabelle, meet my wife, Cleopatra.”

It was on the woman. She was a splash of vibrant color in the monochrome gloom, a mirage in stilettos. Across the street, under the flickering awning of a jazz club called "The Velvet Noose," she stood arguing with a man in a cheap suit. Her dress was fire-engine red, a slash of silk that ended mid-thigh, clinging to curves that could start wars. Her legs, sheathed in sheer black stockings, seemed to go on forever, ending in lethal, six-inch heels. Rain misted her dark, tousled hair and the smooth skin of her shoulders. Her name was Isabella. He knew that much. A freelance journalist with a nose for trouble and a body built for sin. He’d seen her file. He’d also seen her, from a distance, at

He barely touched her. That hurt her more than the pain in her body. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. One of the maids hurried to open it. A tall woman stepped in, dressed in black, wearing dark glasses even though it wasn’t sunny. Clara. Isabella’s closest friend. And also the most poisonous. When Clara saw the broken glass, the crying maids, and the heavy atmosphere, her lips parted slightly. “My God,” she muttered. “So it’s true.” She rushed upstairs.

“Men like him are never harmless. They're just time bombs waiting to explode.” Clara frowned, sensing the weight behind Isabelle’s words. “If he gives you real trouble, let us know. The whole town’s got Mrs. Aldric’s back. And we got yours too” Isabelle nodded, but the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. Clara stretched out her hand for a handshake “ I'm Clara and I'm here if you ever need a fellow young woman to talk to.” Isabelle smiled and took Clara's hand. “ I'm Isabelle.”

He didn’t pull away, but I felt the muscles in his arm turn to iron. "Isabelle," Damien said. His voice was a low, dangerous warning, but the woman—Isabelle—only laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound that set my teeth on edge. "Don’t look so grim, Damien. I just wanted to see if the new model lived up to the hype." She stepped closer, her perfume—something heavy and suffocating like lilies—overpowering the scent of the expensive food. She reached out a hand, her long, manicured nails hovering inches from my cheek. "She’s a bit... plain, isn't she? A bit too much like a maid trying to play princess."

Ten tall, broad-shouldered movers were hauling heavy garment bags, massive floral arrangements, and wooden crates through the doors, heading toward the guest house. Clara, our chef, was already struggling up the stairs with a stack of Isabella's garment bags. "Easy with those, please! I don't want them wrinkled!" Isabella called out after her. "Yes, ma'am!" Clara called back, sweating. "And Mom!" Isabella turned around, her voice hitting a pitch that made me instinctively press my palms over my ears. "I need you to call the florist. The final centerpieces need to be delivered in the next few hours."

A faint rustle of heavy wool broke the silence. Isabella stepped out from the darkness of the recessed side chapel stairwell. She had traded her ivory silk gown for a thick, matte-black cashmere trench coat buttoned tightly to her jaw, her dark hair bound back into a severe, practical knot. In her right hand, she carried the ancient iron key with the intricate clover pattern; tucked securely inside her coat pocket was the heavy, leather-bound Rossi blood ledger. She stepped directly into his three-pace boundary, her face pale, her dark eyes wide and burning with a fierce, calculating energy. She didn't look back at the chapel doors. She looked directly into Dante’s carved face.