Control is easier when no one else knows they're competing.
The car was quiet. Too quiet for most.
But Isabella preferred it that way.
Silence let her think. Noise got in the way of analysis.
She sat in the back seat, legs crossed, one hand resting on her bag, eyes focused out the window. She already knew where Ethan would be—Rowan's Books, 3:02 PM. Right on schedule.
Across the street, she spotted him. Standing in his usual posture: one hand in his pocket, the other lightly grazing book spines as he browsed. His hair was slightly messy. He probably hadn't noticed.
She'd told his tailor to account for that.
Then she saw the girl.
Same stride. Same hopeful tension in the shoulders. Slightly upgraded wardrobe—fitted top, natural makeup, soft lipstick.
Claire.
Desperate. But not self-aware enough to call it that.
Isabella watched her step inside. Watched the greeting. The small smile. The soft eye contact. The invitation to "talk."
She reached into her bag and removed a slim, mirrored compact. Her reflection stared back: controlled, composed, unshakable. The same face that terrified her private tutors and silenced executives twice her age.
She adjusted her collar, smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt, and reapplied a touch of lip gloss.
Presentation mattered. Perception shaped power.
She wasn't going in to interrupt.
She was going to remind.
There is no "competition" when you're already ahead.
Isabella stepped out onto the sidewalk as the car disappeared down the street. Her heels tapped lightly against the pavement.
She didn't rush. That would imply urgency.
She walked like she always did—measured, elegant, and with the absolute certainty that whoever she was walking toward would look up and remember.
In the bookstore window, Ethan was still speaking to Claire.
He hadn't noticed her yet.
But he would.
She didn't rush.He'd see her soon enough.