The bookstore was not part of her world.

Isabela knew she shouldn’t have lingered—not here, not in a place meant for quiet contemplation instead of survival. The Del Castillos did not waste time on sentimentality. Their children did not browse bookshelves or trace the embossed titles with curiosity. Their daughters did not stand beneath soft-hanging lights, momentarily captivated by the scent of ink and dust.

But today, she was reckless.

She had been sent on an errand, something simple: retrieve a package, deliver a message, disappear into the city’s folds as she always did. Efficiency was key, and yet, as she passed the bookstore, something pulled her in—something she couldn’t quite name.

Inside, the air was different. It was calm, warm, untouched by the tension she carried in her shoulders. It smelled like paper and old leather, like things meant to last.

She stepped forward, fingers brushing against the edges of a hardcover novel. She had read before, of course. Secretly. Books had always been stolen moments, pressed between duties, hidden beneath loose floorboards in her room where no one would find them. She read in quiet corners, always prepared to shut the pages at the slightest noise. Words were her rebellion.

“You look lost,” a voice said.

She turned sharply, instincts kicking in before rational thought. The man behind the counter wasn’t armed, wasn’t a threat, wasn’t anyone she should recognize.

But he was watching her.

His name tag read Leon, though the casual ease in his stance made it feel unnecessary. His eyes held a kind of curiosity—not sharp like the men she was used to dealing with, not calculating like her mother’s, but something softer.

“I don’t get lost,” Isabela replied instinctively, her voice controlled.

Leon tilted his head slightly, considering her with amusement rather than suspicion. “Do you read?” he asked.

The question caught her off guard.

No one had ever asked her if she read. They asked if she could count money quickly, if she could get in and out of a room unnoticed, if she could lie without hesitation. They asked if she was ready to prove herself, if she could handle orders without question.

But reading?

That was something private. That was something delicate.

So she said nothing.

Leon didn’t press. Instead, he turned, fingers grazing the edge of a book before pulling it free. He placed it on the counter between them, sliding it toward her.

“Try this one,” he said simply.

Isabela glanced down at the title—Poems for the Moon and Other Lovers.

“I don’t—”

“You don’t have to buy it.” He shrugged. “Just read the first page.”

She shouldn’t.

Every second spent here was a risk, an unnecessary detour. She was supposed to be meeting someone, collecting something, moving on. She had been taught that hesitation was weakness, that attachments were liabilities, that lingering too long in places like this made her vulnerable.

And yet, she reached for the book.

The pages were delicate beneath her fingers, ink curling softly against the paper. She scanned the first lines, their rhythm unfamiliar, their meaning strangely inviting.

Leon watched her, but not with impatience.

“Not your style?” he asked after a beat.

“I don’t have a style,” she replied, her voice quieter this time.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Books are the best way to figure out who you are.”

Isabela frowned, gripping the book tighter before she could stop herself. The thought unsettled her.

She was Del Castillo. She already knew who she was.

Didn’t she?