Isabella stepped out of the cab on West 57th Street and felt the November wind slice through her coat like a warning. She should have turned back then. Instead she paid the driver in cash, pulled the black silk half-mask over her eyes, and walked toward the private elevator that waited beneath the unmarked awning. The invitation in her clutch was a forgery, printed on heavy cream stock she had stolen from the gallery’s back room and aged with cold tea. The gold-embossed crest looked perfect under dim light. It had to.
Inside the elevator, mirrors on every wall reflected a woman she barely recognized: auburn hair twisted into a low knot, lips painted the color of fresh blood, body wrapped in a backless emerald silk gown that cost more than three months of her salary. The dress had come fro
