The car stopped a block away from the address.
From the back seat, Isabella could already see the building — an old, ivy-clad townhouse set apart from the others, its windows dark save for a single faint light on the upper floor.
She tightened the belt of her coat and reached for the door handle.
Alexander caught her wrist, his fingers firm around hers.
"Don't underestimate her," he said softly, his grey eyes serious for once.
"She's not Emilia. She's worse."
Isabella's lips curved into a calm, cold smile.
"Then she should be afraid of me."
For a long moment he didn't let go, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist almost absentmindedly. Then he released her with a quiet chuckle.
"Don't die tonight, Miss Reed. You're just starting to get interesting."
She walked the last block alone, her heels steady against the cracked stones of the street.
The night air was sharp, carrying the faint smell of rain and earth.
At the door, she didn't bother to knock.
It opened before she could reach for the handle.
Standing there, looking far too composed for someone who'd been exposed that very morning, was Emilia.
Her sister wore a blood-red dress, her lips painted to match, and her smile was sweet as venom.
"Well, well," she drawled.
"You're harder to kill than I thought."
"Disappointed?" Isabella replied smoothly, stepping past her into the house.
The air inside was warm but thick with tension. A single chandelier cast golden light over the room, and at the far end, seated at a table like a queen awaiting her audience, was the woman from the video.
Up close, she was even more striking — tall, with sharp cheekbones and a cold, elegant beauty. Her dark eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement… or hunger.
Isabella didn't flinch. She walked toward her, stopping just short of the table.
"So," she said evenly.
"You wanted me here. I'm here. What do you want?"
The woman's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.
"Oh, Isabella," she murmured, her voice like silk over steel.
"You think this is about what I want? This has always been about what you're willing to give."
Isabella arched a brow, her expression calm even as her pulse quickened.
"And what would that be?"
The woman leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands.
"Everything."
Before Isabella could reply, Emilia stepped closer, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
"You don't belong here," her sister hissed.
"You never did. You were just… in the way. You still are."
Isabella turned her head slowly, meeting Emilia's furious eyes with icy calm.
"Funny," she murmured.
"From where I'm standing, it looks like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. And you… are just a shadow."
Emilia's hand twitched — and for a split second, Isabella thought she might actually slap her.
But instead, the woman at the table stood.
The room seemed to quiet around her as she walked toward Isabella, stopping just close enough for Isabella to catch the faint scent of her perfume — dark, intoxicating.
"You have a choice," she said softly.
"Leave now, and I let you live. Or stay… and burn with the rest of them."
For a heartbeat, the words hung heavy in the air.
Then Isabella smiled — slow and dangerous, her voice steady when she spoke.
"Strike the match. Let's see who burns first."
A sharp laugh escaped the woman's lips — though it didn't reach her eyes.
"You really are your father's daughter," she murmured.
And just like that, the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
There was a crash — the sound of glass breaking — and a rush of footsteps.
When the lights flickered back, Isabella was alone in the room.
The woman. Emilia. Gone.
On the table lay another note — written in the same looping script as before.
She picked it up, her hands steady despite the chill crawling up her spine.
"Catch me if you can."
Isabella crumpled the note in her fist and smiled faintly to herself.
"Oh, I will," she whispered.
"I always do."