The woman moved like liquid fire poured into scarlet silk, her dress painted on curves that spoke of personal trainers and cosmetic surgeons who understood their craft. Her smile curved with the precision of a blade wrapped in velvet, lips the color of fresh blood against porcelain skin that had never seen an honest day’s work.

“You must be Isobel Wright,” she purred, the words dripping with honeyed venom. Her voice carried the kind of finishing-school polish that money could buy but ...