Isabella’s tone was calm, but a shadow of tension threaded through her words. “She won’t use the stolen draft as it is. She’ll reshape it. Twist it into something that serves her.”

“What does that mean?” Victoria pressed, her voice edged with urgency.

Isabella fell silent, her gaze distant and thoughtful, as if calculating moves on a hidden chessboard.

Victoria’s nerves tightened with each passing second of silence. “Isabella, we can’t just wait for her to strike. What’s our move?”

A slow shake of Isabella’s head. “We don’t wait. We pivot.”

“Pivot how?”

A faint, cunning smile touched Isabella’s lips. “We release a statement.”

“A statement?” Victoria echoed, baffled.

“Yes. Announce that an unfinished design draft has been stolen from our studio.”

Victoria stared, processing. “Stolen? But why?”

“Release it discreetly. Timing is everything,” Isabella instructed, her voice low and steady.

Though confusion lingered, Victoria nodded. Trust won over doubt. “I’ll see it done right away.”

“Go,” Isabella said.

Victoria turned and hurried from the office.

Isabella watched her leave, the smile fading from her face as night draped the city in electric lights.

A sleek black car waited discreetly outside the studio. The driver stood ready.

Isabella drew a steadying breath, straightened her jacket, and stepped out.

“Good evening, Mrs. Blackwood,” the driver said, opening the car door.

She offered a quiet acknowledgment and slid inside.

The car pulled away, heading toward Hawthorne Residence.

“Mr. Blackwood mentioned he has a business dinner this evening, ma’am. He may be late,” the driver informed her.

At the mention of Ethan, Isabella’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“I understand,” she replied evenly.

“He’s very considerate of your well-being, Mrs. Blackwood,” the driver added gently.

The words struck a bitter chord.

A complicated emotion flickered behind her eyes, then vanished.

Isabella said nothing, turning instead to watch the city blur past.

The night glittered, vibrant and alive, but she felt none of its energy.

Ethan, considerate?

The irony was a sharp, cold blade.

She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.

The car glided through the gates of Hawthorne Residence and came to a smooth stop.

The driver opened her door.

“We’ve arrived, Mrs. Blackwood.”