This time, the setting was intriguingly different. Instead of the usual sterile atmosphere of a cold office or the vast echo of a desolate warehouse, Rafael Morales found himself ensconced in a warmly lit study, its wooden shelves brimming with leather-bound tomes. The air was steeped in the heady fragrance of aged paper and fine leather, entwined with a subtle yet intoxicating hint of Isla’s signature perfume—an essence that lingered pleasantly in the intimate space. Rafael sat snugly in a ...