Isabelle was stunned the moment Dante told her to 'fuck off', but she nodded her head regally and walked away.
Not quickly, mind you. She made damn sure that nothing she did would even slightly suggest that she had been rattled or embarrassed or caught off guard in any meaningful way.
Instead, she moved with the same measured grace that she had arrived with, her heels clicking against the marble in steady, deliberate beats that carried her away from Dante and the girl still sitting at that small table with her desserts and her coffee and her complete lack of awareness about what she'd just done.
Her spine was straight and her shoulders were back. Her expression was smooth and neutral, the kind of practiced composure that came from years of navigating rooms like this one, where every glance mattered and every reaction was cataloged and stored away for later use.
