The office was dim-late afternoon light bleeding through the blinds in thin gold bars across the desk. Dust motes danced in the beams, illuminating the expensive mahogany and leather. I sat back in the chair, the soft leather creaking beneath me, phone pressed to my ear, listening to Isabella's voice fill the quiet.

"...so we're at Olga's place now. She's packing like her life depends on it. Boxes everywhere. I swear she owns more shoes than I do."

I smiled-small, automatic. "Sounds chaotic."

"It is. But good chaotic. She keeps dropping things and blaming the boxes. I'm just sitting on the floor handing her tape like I'm her personal assistant."...