Isabella

The clock tower had only just finished its midnight tolling when Isabella Sterling turned the key to her sprawling glass-walled penthouse. Still humming the melody of the final song from the gala, the young heiress kicked off her heels, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves over the shoulders of her shimmering black silk party dress. The city lights of Manhattan stretched out beneath her like a carpet of diamonds, and for a moment, the world felt perfectly still. But as she stepped further into the foyer, the heavy scent of an unfamiliar cologne cut through the lingering aroma of her expensive perfume, and the chilling realization set in that the rhythmic clicking of her own footsteps wasn't the only sound in the room. Before she could reach for the alarm panel, the shadows near the floor-to-ceiling windows detached themselves from the darkness. Two figures, clad in tactical black, moved with a predatory speed that left her breathless. Panic surged, but a gloved hand silenced her cry before it could leave her throat, and a sharp sweep of her legs sent her sprawling onto the cold marble floor.