William Vance's dismissive laugh echoed through Isabelle's elegant sitting room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the tension between us.
"Your faith in this Liam Knight is both admirable and foolish, Isabelle," William said, straightening his expensive suit jacket. "I've known you since childhood. You're intelligent. Discerning. Which makes this blind spot all the more puzzling."
I watched Isabelle's face remain composed, though I could see the subtle tightening of her jaw. She'd always been skilled at hiding her emotions in polite company.
"It's not blind faith, William," she replied evenly. "It's based on observation and firsthand experience."
William scoffed, pacing across the Persian rug. "Observation? The man was a live-in son-in-law! Do you know who is truly exceptional? Julian Hawthorne."
The name hung in the air between them. Julian Hawthorne—son of William's oldest friend and, from what I'd gathered, a man who'd been pursuing Isabelle for years.
