Isabela knew she was playing with fire.

She had returned to the bookstore three times since her first encounter with Leon. Each time, she told herself it was the last—that she wouldn’t let curiosity pull her back, that she wouldn’t linger in a world she had no business being in.

And yet, every time she approached the glass door, she found herself stepping inside instead of walking away.

Leon never asked questions. He never pried, never pushed her to explain why she always glanced over her shoulder before entering, why she stiffened when someone else came too close. Instead, he handed her books without expectation, let her read in the quiet corners without comment, and spoke to her like she was—normal.

Not a Del Castillo. Not a weapon sharpened for survival. Just a girl.

It was unsettling at first. The absence of suspicion. The absence of fear. She was so used to being recognized as a danger, as something to avoid or revere, that she didn’t know how to process his complete indifference to who she was supposed to be.

It should have been unnerving. But instead, she found herself craving it.

One evening, Isabela was deep into a novel—one Leon had recommended, something about freedom, about choices—when her phone vibrated against the counter.

Her stomach tightened as she glanced at the screen.

Come home. Now.

She knew better than to delay.

Leon, perceptive as ever, noticed the shift. He saw the way her muscles tensed, the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the pages as if reluctant to let go.

“Trouble?” he asked, his voice easy but his gaze sharp.

Isabela forced a smirk, masking the dread creeping into her ribs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

She left the bookstore, stepping into the night, and for the first time, the city felt heavier.

The neon signs, the distant hum of traffic, the weight of her own footsteps—it all pressed against her, like the world was reminding her who she was supposed to be.

She entered the Del Castillo estate with controlled steps, pushing away the unease twisting in her chest.

Inside, her mother sat at the end of the long dining table, a glass of wine in one hand, a ledger in the other. Her father stood near the window, looking out into the city.

“You’ve been distracted,” her mother said without looking up.

Isabela’s grip tightened around the strap of her bag. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her father finally turned, meeting her gaze with quiet calculation. “We mean that you need to prove your loyalty. You’ve been slipping.”

Slipping.

The word made her stomach twist.

“I haven’t—”

“There’s an issue that needs handling,” her mother interrupted, her tone as smooth as glass. “You’ll take care of it tonight.”

Her father stepped closer, placing a piece of paper on the table. A name. An address.

A warning.

Isabela stared at it. She knew what this meant. Knew what they expected. Knew what refusing would cost.

Her hands, steady for years, trembled ever so slightly.

And in the back of her mind, she thought of Leon. Thought of the bookstore. Thought of the freedom of paper and ink, of conversations that didn’t revolve around power or control.

Was she really slipping?

Or was she finally waking up?