Isabella—or rather, Isa—stood before the towering iron gates of the Blackstone estate.
Two years ago, this place had been her home. Now, it felt like enemy territory.
The same marble lions still guarded the entrance. The same ivy curled around the stone pillars. But Isa? She was no longer the naive, wide-eyed woman who once believed love could conquer betrayal.
She rang the bell.
A moment later, the butler answered—older now, more cautious. His eyes scanned her face, confused. "May I help you, Miss…?"
Isa smiled. "Tell Mr. Blackstone his new art dealer has arrived. Isa Moreau. From Paris."
The name rolled off her tongue like silk.
She was no art dealer. But Damien wouldn't remember every minor contact arranged by his assistant—he was too busy managing his empire and keeping up appearances for the press.
And now? She was about to step back into the world that had tried to burn her alive.
As the butler led her through the grand hall, memories flooded her—her wedding day, the laughter in the ballroom, the scent of Damien's cologne as he kissed her neck.
All lies.
She passed a family portrait. There she was—the old her—smiling beside Damien in a white dress. Isa paused, her eyes cold.
"I like this piece," she said, feigning interest. "But the composition feels… off. Too much illusion, not enough truth."
The butler blinked. "Pardon, Miss?"
She only smiled.
Her first step back into the lion's den had begun. And this time, she wouldn't leave until she tore down everything Damien Blackstone had built—with her bare hands if she had to.