All Yours
Skyehis sweetheart strides backinstant attraction
The invitation had been clear: no names, no titles, no consequences.
Isabella Moreau stood near a shadowed alcove, champagne flute forgotten in her gloved hand. At thirty-one she moved through the world with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned early how to command attention without asking for it—tall, skin the warm gold of sun on sand, dark hair swept into an elegant bun. Her gown was deep emerald silk, cut low across the breasts and slit high on one thigh, the fabric holding her legs in place with every shift of weight. She had come alone. She had come curious.