Isabella was taken aback by Zoe’s aggressive stance, momentarily speechless.

Zoe ignored her completely and turned to leave.

Isabella watched her go, trembling with barely contained rage.

She had always been the center of attention and was unaccustomed to such public disrespect.

At Apex Design Collective, it was always Isabella who outperformed her.

Now that Zoe had returned to New York, she had hoped to finally outshine her longtime rival. Yet Isabella remained as formidable as ever. Clenching her jaw, Zoe pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

“I want a full investigation into Isabella’s studio. Make it quick,” she demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

A respectful voice answered on the other end. “Of course, Miss Tremblay. I’ll get right on it.”

Half an hour later, Isabella opened the door to her home.

“Grandma, I’m back.”

Eleanor was sitting on the living room sofa, knitting. She looked up, her face brightening. “Isabella, welcome home.”

Isabella crossed the room and embraced her grandmother gently. “Thank you for everything, Grandma.”

“No need to thank me, dear.” Eleanor chuckled warmly, patting Isabella’s hand.

“I might be home late tomorrow. I have an important meeting.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows lifted with concern. “Who are you meeting?”

Isabella hesitated, her expression turning serious. “Someone important. If it goes well, I might finally find Mom.”

Eleanor set her knitting aside, her eyes glistening with hope.

“Really? Do you think it’s possible?”

Isabella held her grandmother’s hands firmly. “Yes, I will find her. And we’ll be together again.”

Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes as she nodded slowly. “I believe you, Isabella. I really do.”

The next morning, soft golden light streamed through the sheer curtains, painting delicate patterns on the hardwood floor. Isabella stood before the mirror, her reflection calm and focused. She wore a simple yet elegant professional outfit. She smoothed the fabric carefully, ensuring every detail was perfect. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her collar and reached for her bag.

Her car came to a stop in front of an elegant café with a castle-like facade that radiated timeless charm. Isabella shifted into park and paused for a moment, taking in the sight. Her eyes lifted to the sign above the entrance—Café de Flore.

She had followed the address given to her the night before. Steadying herself, she pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by the rich, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

The interior was understated yet refined. Soft lighting and a tranquil atmosphere put her at ease. A waitress in a crisp uniform approached with a polite smile. “Good morning, ma’am. Do you have a reservation?”

Isabella returned the smile briefly. “Yes, I have an appointment in the Salon Privé.”

The waitress nodded. “Right this way, please.”

They passed a series of elegant booths and moved toward the more secluded section of the café. “Excuse me, sir. Your guest has arrived.”

“Please, come in,” a deep, measured voice responded from within.

Isabella took a quiet breath, steadied herself, and pushed open the door.