Clove Isabelle Fuhrman Mga Nobela at Kwento

He had chosen his two offerings carefully. Isabela, 29, a fiery local Carnival dancer with golden-brown skin, long dark curls, and a body built for sin — full, heavy breasts, narrow waist, and a round, juicy ass. And Camila, 24, her younger cousin — petite, smooth-skinned, with perky breasts and a tight, innocent-looking body that hid a very dirty mind.

Isabelle’s voice grew louder, as if she wished every corner of the ballroom could hear her, ensuring everyone witnessed my embarrassment. Every gift Clara received was priceless; even the L. Quill painting she and Damian had so meticulously chosen didn’t earn them more than a polite acknowledgement. A worn-out photo album as a gift for the Luna? By what right? Isabelle folded her arms, a smug smile plastered on her face, waiting for Clara to dismiss me in disgust. But everything unfolded contrary to her expectations. Clara took the album from the box, her expression starting with the same polite smile. However, as she opened the album and her gaze fell upon the photos inside, tears gradually

She couldn’t help but shirk back a little, her knees bending. “It’s okay,” she said with her hands up so that it was easy to see they were empty. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help.” Her smile was warm and friendly. “I’m Isabella, and this is my assistant, Cleo.” “HI,” Cleo said with a friendly wave. She was still standing at the end of the bed. “Are you feeling all right? You’ve got some pain medicine in that IV, but if I need to adjust it, I’m happy to.”

Uncomplicated. I closed the tab. Two weeks later a notification came from Léo. A photograph. Isabelle, Claire's social enforcer, the woman who had quietly closed every door that might have opened to me during the years I didn't know I was being closed out of rooms, was standing outside a gallery. She was wearing the VOSS Iron-Shoulder Blazer. Charcoal wool, the collar angled the way I had designed it, as though the garment were leaning slightly forward. She looked like herself but louder.

She smells like rain and expensive perfume. ​"I am the genius, Liam. I am the one who wrote the fail-safe. Why would I be shivering in a blanket? I am the one who survived." ​Isabella POV (By the Fire) ​My mind is racing. My calculator brain is trying to find the flaw. This girl looks like me. She talks like me. She even knows the story of the dress. ​Then I see it. ​I look at her hands. They are perfect. Her nails are manicured. Her skin is smooth.

But as she walked down the stone path back to the hall, she checked the cards. The man who gave her the cards was called Julien Hayes, and he was his assistant. But as she looked at the other card, her chest tightened with disbelief. President of Thorne Corporation—Riven Thorne. Of course, she knew the Thorne Corporation. But how in the world… had Isabelle gotten involved with such a bigshot? No wonder Chloe had been pushed back so cleanly at the audition. If this man had intervened, then it meant the matter had been over before it even began.

Suddenly, a hand—dry, cold, and smelling of death—clamped over her mouth from behind. "Give me the key, St. Claire," Isabella whispered into her ear, her breath smelling of rotted lilies. "Give it to me, or I’ll tell him what you’re hiding under your dress." (Watch out for Chapter 6) 💬 Add to library | Vote | Comment

Clara said. “My new woman?? Who??" I asked with a confused expression on my face. “The one in your car…isn't her name Isabella???!! It seems you have moved on well Arsenio so leave me the fuck alone!!!” "Isabella is not my fucking woman!! What are you talking about Clara…I haven't been with anyone else since you left me!! That's how much hold you have on me!!” “You are such a deadly Liar Arsenio!!! You expect me to believe that after two years, you haven't fucked around with someone else???"

But she didn’t have time for this now—not when her mind was so focused on taking down Ryan and everything he had built. “I don’t need closure, Chloe,” Isabella said, her voice quieter than usual. “I need power.” Chloe stared at her, as if waiting for Isabella to say something more, but then she seemed to understand. With a deep sigh, Chloe flopped back down on the couch again, her eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint. “Fine, if you’re going to keep playing the ‘ice queen’ act, I’m just going to tell you what I think.”

The voice was silky, oozing with humour and threat. Alexander’s breath seized in his throat. “Isabella.” Isabella went forward, the faint click of her boots on the concrete floor ringing in the solitude. She wore a black cloak clinging to her shape, raindrops falling from her dark hair. Clara’s gun was pulled in an instant, her hands firm. “Stay back,” she advised. Isabella cocked her head, her lips curving into a grin. “Oh, Clara, you’ve always been so dramatic. Put that toy down before you damage yourself.”