I tapped my phone screen, watching Isabella settle onto the stone bench in my garden like she owned it. The silk robe slipped carelessly off her shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone. Even through the grainy security feed, the morning light caught her skin like polished pearl.
"The flight is in ten minutes," my driver reminded me from the front seat.
I didn't acknowledge him. My attention was fixed on Isabella's face as she tilted it toward the sun, eyes closed, wearing that new mask of casual indifference she'd adopted. It was almost convincing – if you didn't know what to look for. But I'd made a career of reading people's tells, and my little dancer had several.
The slight tremor in her hands when she pushed her wet hair back. The too-careful way she arranged her limbs, like a doll posed for display. She thought she was being clever, playing at nonchalance. As if I couldn't see right through her performance.
