~LAUREN'S POV~

I sat across from Isabella at the lakeside café, watching her stir her tea with practiced elegance. Four days in Geneva had felt like stepping into another life—one where I belonged in this world of old money and older secrets.

"More pastry, dear?" Isabella offered, pushing the plate of croissants toward me.

"I shouldn't," I laughed. "My clothes barely fit after all the food you've been feeding me."

Isabella waved dismissively. "Nonsense. You Americans are too concerned with size. In my day, curves were celebrated."

I took a croissant, unable to resist. Something about Isabella made it impossible to say no to her. She had the same magnetic...