12-ISLA

"You're going to cut through the plate," Sophia teases, amusement lacing her tone.

I blink, looking down at my plate, only now realizing how tightly I'm gripping the knife. The poor steak is nearly butchered under my aggression. Exhaling, I set my utensils down and take a sip of my white wine, letting the chilled liquid coat my throat. But not even the finest Chardonnay can wash away the irritation simmering inside me.

All thanks to a certain insufferable man.

Sophia eyes me knowingly. "It's better to tell me who's making you plot someone's murder than to let you sit here and stew in your thoughts."

I sigh. She's not wrong. But saying his name out loud will only make it worse.

Sophia had returned from her business trip yesterday, and as always, she's effortlessly stunning—golden brown hair styled to perfection, her sharp brown eyes glinting with mischief. She winks at me, the corner of her red lips lifting in a smirk.

I try to smile back, but my mood is still bruised from my earlier headache of a meeting with Ciaran Valente. That man is the epitome of irritation. A walking, breathing source of my current misery. I was this close to slapping him right in the middle of that hotel lobby.

"It's nothing," I say, forcing nonchalance into my voice. "The meeting just drained all my energy."

Sophia raises a perfectly sculpted brow. "What meeting?"

Of course, she asks.

I hesitate. She knows how much I hate the Valentes. I would rather kiss a donkey than be anywhere near them, much less work with one. If I tell her who I had a meeting with, she's going to have the kind of reaction that turns heads in this restaurant.

I cut into my steak, stealing a glance at her before answering casually, "The contract negotiation meeting." I pause, then add, "With Ciaran Valente."

As expected, Sophia freezes. Her fork stops mid-air, her head snapping toward me so fast I worry she might get whiplash.

"What?" she nearly shrieks, her voice rising enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby diners.

Knew it.

Taking another sip of my wine, I pretend to be unbothered. "We somehow—accidentally—joined hands for the Consortium project." I set my glass down. "Not my decision, by the way. That was the chairman's doing."

She squeals. Actually squeals. People turn again to look, but Sophia doesn't care. She presses forward, her brown eyes glimmering like I just handed her a juicy piece of gossip.

"Ciaran Valente?" she hisses, as if she still can't believe it.

"We are at La Lumière," I remind her, lowering my voice. One of the finest restaurants in Manhattan, with crystal chandeliers and white-gloved service—not the place for loud dramatics.

Sophia doesn't care. She gawks at me, excitement bubbling in her expression for no reason. "Tell me everything. How was the meeting? Did he—"

His face flashes in my mind before I can stop it. That infuriating smirk, the dark glint in his eyes, the way he smelled when he was too damn close. A ghost of warmth lingers on my wrist where he had touched me, sending an unwelcome sensation down my spine.

But then his words come rushing back, cold water over fire.

Certified asshole.

"It wasn't extraordinary or anything," I say flatly.

Sophia pouts, leaning forward, her gold earrings catching the light, the same way her gold bracelet does when she moves. "Come on, I need details."

I roll my eyes. "Nothing really happened. We discussed the clauses and went our separate ways." I stab a piece of steak. "Like I said, exhausting."

I don't mention the way his words grated on my nerves, the arrogance in his tone, or the way his presence seemed to suck the air out of the room. He isn't important enough to bring up any further.

Sophia studies me but doesn't push. Instead, she returns to her food.

I take the opportunity to change the topic. "How was Rome?"

As expected, her face lights up. "Oh, let me tell you about this man I met…"

I listen, grateful for the distraction.

Sophia and I have been friends for three years now. We met at a party—one I had no interest in attending—and I wasn't expecting us to hit it off. In fact, I had no interest in friendships at all, especially within the business circle. Too much pretense, too many hidden motives.

But Sophia had been different.

She took the initiative, and after that night, we kept running into each other. Coincidence after coincidence, until eventually, we became friends.

She knows almost seventy percent of my life, and I know hers.

Her parents died when she was young, leaving her to be raised by her grandparents. I've never met them—she says they don't like meeting people—but I know the Sinclairs are old money. Their name is present in nearly every gala, every high-profile event I've attended.

Most of it, however, is controlled by him.

Her uncle. The one who runs the family estate. Sophia isn't close to him, but there's no hostility either. Their relationship is distant, yet functional.

Not like mine.

I haven't seen—or wanted to see—my uncles in nine years. They are useless and greedy.

Dad always says it's better to keep our distance from them.

And I agree.

I finish the last sip of my wine, letting the crisp taste linger before setting the glass down. The steak is gone, the plate wiped nearly clean.

I take the cloth napkin, dabbing the corner of my lips as Sophia leans back in her chair, watching me with that amused glint in her brown eyes.

"I have to say, I'm surprised Ciaran Valente didn't cause a scene over having to work with a Moreau." She tilts her head. "Especially you."

I exhale slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "I need the Consortium name for my company," I say simply. "That's all."

That isn't all, but I don't say the other reason. Not yet. Not until I'm sure of it myself.

I shrug, playing nonchalant. "I have no idea why he agreed. Maybe the Valentes need this partnership as much as we do." I push my empty plate aside. "Whatever the case, it's only for a month. After that, we're done. Never working together again."

Sophia smiles, slow and knowing, like she sees something I don't. "Yeah, right."

I arch a brow. "What?"

She leans in slightly, her voice teasing. "Who knows what might happen in a month? The two of you could fall in love—"

I cut her off before she can finish that absurd thought. "Pigs will fly before that happens."

Sophia bursts out laughing, wiping her hand with her napkin. "You're no fun."

"I'm realistic," I correct.

With a dramatic sigh, she pushes her chair back and stands, reaching for her purse. I follow suit, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder as we step away from our table.

The restaurant's warm golden lighting casts a soft glow over the polished floors and pristine white tablecloths. A pianist plays in the background, the melody smooth and elegant, matching the sophisticated hum of conversation around us.

As we step outside, the crisp Manhattan night air greets us, a stark contrast to the cozy atmosphere inside. The streets are alive—cars honking, pedestrians walking in clusters, the city buzzing with its usual restless energy.

Sophia loops her arm through mine, her heels clicking against the pavement as she turns to me with a mischievous smile.

"We should go to a club," she suggests, voice light and playful. "It's been forever since we went out."

I scoff immediately. "Absolutely not."

She pouts. "Come on, Isla. Just for a little while."

"I don't want to," I say firmly. "And we both know 'a little while' in your dictionary means hours of dancing, drinking, and dealing with annoying men."

Sophia sighs dramatically. "You make it sound like torture."

"It is torture."

"You need to unwind," she insists. "Let loose a little."

I shake my head. "I'm perfectly fine."

She gives me a long look, then narrows her eyes. "You never want to go to clubs anymore. You used to love them."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I realized I don't enjoy wasting my time in sweaty, overcrowded spaces."

Sophia gasps, placing a hand over her heart. "You wound me. Clubs are not a waste of time! They're a place for fun, for dancing, for making terrible decisions that we'll laugh about later."

I sigh, exasperated. "Sophia—"

She tightens her grip on my arm. "Please?"

"No."

"I'll pay for all your drinks."

"I don't want drinks."

She hums, pretending to think. "What if I promise we'll leave whenever you want?"

I eye her suspiciously. "You'll actually listen when I say it's time to go?"

Sophia nods solemnly. "Scout's honor."

I squint. "You were never a scout."

"Details." She waves a hand dismissively. "So, are we going?"

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. The logical part of me says to refuse again, to stand my ground. But another part—the part that knows Sophia will keep nagging until she wins—realizes it's a battle I'm not going to win.

"Fine," I mutter.

Sophia gasps, then grins victoriously. "Knew you'd say yes."

I roll my eyes. "One hour, Sophia."

She links her arm with mine again, practically bouncing as she leads me toward the curb. "We'll see."

I don't know why I agreed. But as the city lights glimmer around us, I get the feeling this night isn't going to go as planned.