The jet engine roared beneath Isabella as her private plane soared through the skies toward Paris. Every mile of air between her and her destination only fueled the wildfire burning in her chest. She sat upright in her seat, legs crossed, perfectly poised, but inside, she was unraveling.

"A nanny," she scoffed under her breath, replaying her own parting words to Cynthia. It hadn’t been enough. She should have slapped her. Screamed louder. Dragged her out of that hospital room by her hair.

She reached for her phone again, thumbing Isla’s number for what felt like the hundredth time.

Still no answer.

Voicemail. Again.

"Damn it, Isla, where the hell...