Clove Isabelle Fuhrman Novels & Stories

Isabelle was sipping her wine, her eyes assessing Aurora over the rim of the glass. "Liam Cross," Isabelle said, her voice smooth, "is a very old friend. He would be... displeased... to know we are having this conversation." "Liam Cross," Aurora said, leaning forward, her black tunic merging with the shadows, "is the past. He is volume. He is mass market disguised as luxury." She reached into her bag. She didn't pull out a lookbook. She didn't pull out a spreadsheet. She pulled out a single swatch of fabric.

“ Puaaaaaahhhh ” Isabella spat rinsing her mouth for the third time . She wondered why she threw up in quick successions , her head literally felt heavy . She could not feel her taste buds also . Everything tasted bitter and even her perfume smelt awful . Untying her robe , she slips into a teal green pant trouser and white silk stylish shirt. She tuck in her shirts putting the pants in place . She grabbed her brown six inch block heels and brown bag . She removed her hair bonnet revealing her already styled hair . She already had her make-up done, she only re-applied her favourite red lipstick smacking both lips together to get her perfect look .

I replied with a playful smile. Lucas chuckled and gestured to a woman standing nearby. "Nicola, this is Isabelle, my assistant." Isabelle was pretty, with her hair tied up in a neat bun and dressed in a conservative outfit that contrasted sharply with the stylish surroundings. She gave me a polite smile, which I returned. "Nice to meet you, Isabelle." I extended my hand. "Likewise," she replied softly. She shook it. Lucas cleared his throat. "I need a favor. Isabelle here has to attend a really important meeting, and I want her to dress more... appropriately for the occasion. I thought you could help her pick out a nice dress."

Something rich and savory lingered in the air, wrapping around her senses and easing some of the tension she’d carried in with her. Footsteps approached. “Isabella,” came a familiar voice, warm and welcoming. Claire Hawthorne appeared moments later, a bright smile already on her face. She looked effortlessly elegant, as always—poised without trying too hard.

But his head came back up from the almost impossible angle that it had been placed in, now minus the hood that he had worn moments before. He was completely bald but Isabelle did not even notice this. The things that struck her were his eyes. Even now she would have trouble describing them to anyone, despite the fact that she had thought of not much else, but at that point so many thoughts had come into her head to describe those eyes, all of them now gone. The unmasked man licked his lips and sneered at her horribly as he pushed a wet handkerchief into her face. For a brief moment she could concentrate on nothing more than a very strong smell, which was almost like bleach.

Isabel without a second thought threw her victims across the room and within the blink of an eye, her canines were buried deep in Dylan’s neck, marking her imprint on him. Dylan, consumed with immense pain, grabbed onto Isabel’s leather jacket tightly, to prevent his legs from giving out. Just when he thought the torture wouldn’t end, her canines were replaced with her tongue delicately wiping off the blood from his skin. There was a glint of pride in her yellow orbs as she stared at her flawless imprint. “Mine” she declared in her alpha voice and vanished in a flash. The crowd stared at the spot where Isabel was previously standing in sheer horror. They’ve never seen anything like this befo

The woman laughed, warm, unbothered, the laugh of someone who found minor collisions genuinely amusing rather than annoying. She was older, sixty perhaps, with close-cropped silver hair and the kind of face that had clearly been striking once and had simply grown more interesting with time. She wore a camel coat and carried a paper bag that smelled like something baked. "I'm always coming off these things too fast. Dorothy Curien." She extended her hand like they were already friends. "Isla Mercer." Isla shook it. "Oh...I know who you are." Isla paused just slightly. Not enough to draw attention.

Isabelle face the ladies and smile,scouting them each swiftly "You work for the Macks" "Three of us, two are new,Elisha and pola"one of them spoke "I'm Nadia Gowolka"Isabelle nod. "I want the people from the Macks to step back"The three step back leaving the remaining two "This two will stay,the others have their life entwined with the Macks and I won't take it,you can all leave"Isabelle snap her yellow belt on her tulip gown "You'll come with me jakub" The ladies bow all with a smile.

“Unbelievable. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even related.” “Me too,” I smirked, unable to resist. “Maybe you and I should’ve been switched at birth.” “Very funny,” she retorted. She sighed, her fingers drumming on the table. “Who is that ?" She said. I followed her gaze and nearly choked on my coffee when I saw Isabelle Munroe pulling up in a cab. She stepped out, adjusting the strap of her small luggage case over her shoulder, her other hand smoothing down the fabric of a light, flowery dress that made her look like she’d just stepped out of a summer postcard.

He hadn't known what he wanted to say, only that he couldn't let her just disappear. The elevator chimed, a small, crystalline sound that felt like a bell tolling for him. The doors slid open, revealing her. Isabelle Dela Cruz, the woman who had brought color and life back into his monochrome world, stood there, a small, plain tote bag clutched in her hands. Her face was pale, her eyes were shadowed, but her resolve was a steel-hard line in the set of her jaw. She wore a simple dress, not a piece of the designer clothing he had gifted her. This was Isabelle, stripped bare of all the trappings of his world, ready to walk away.