Isla’s POV
The building Isabella sent me to didn’t look like something meant for art. At least not at first glance.
It stood at the far end of a quiet street lined with skeletal winter trees and glass offices that reflected the grey sky. The clouds hung low today, undecided between rain and mercy—and the air smelled faintly like damp concrete when I stepped out of the car.
I hugged my coat tighter around myself. Seattle still felt new, not unfamiliar exactly. Like moving into someone else’s dream halfway through. My breath fogged in front of me as I stared up at the property.
Four floors. Tall windows. Brick exterior layered by creeping ivy that somehow survived winter.
Okay. Okay, this could be something.
“Miss Isla?”
I turned.
A middle-aged man approached from the entrance carr
