“Fast is my specialty,” Isabel shot back, moving to stand beside Darcy.
Victoria ignored the flicker of something -annoyance? amusement?- and refocused. “We have limited time before the syndicate disappears with Chloe. Torres, you’ll dig into the gala staff - someone let them in. Find out who.”
Isabel gave a mock salute. “On it, Captain.”
Victoria exhaled through her nose and turned back to the group. “We don’t have time for mistakes. Let’s move.”
Victoria exited the briefing room, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum as she stalked toward her office. Irritation sat heavily in her chest, twisting tighter with each step.Late.She hated tardiness. If this became a pattern, she would rip Torres a new one. Victoria hated nothing more than patterns she couldn't control.
The bullpen was busy but not chaotic—just the usual hum of ringing phones, murmured conversations, and the occasional laugh from a rookie who hadn’t yet learned to temper their reactions. She ignored it all, pushing through with a nod here and there, keeping her expression carefully composed. It wasn’t difficult. She’d perfected the art of restraint years ago.
Her office door shut behind her with a quiet click, sealing her off from the rest of the precinct. Exhaling slowly, she moved to her desk and placed both palms flat against the wood. The tension in her shoulders remained, though she tried to will it away. This wasn’t just about tardiness.
It was about Isabel.
Everything about the woman tested Victoria’s patience—her smirks, her casual disregard for authority, the way she seemedto always have a retort ready as if she thrived on getting under Victoria’s skin. She was reckless. Unpredictable. Dangerous in a way Victoria didn’t like to examine too closely.
And yet, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse had jumped when Isabel had walked in, unapologetic as ever, her gaze sharp and knowing. Like she could see right through the professional mask Victoria wore so damned well.
She shoved away from the desk, pacing to the window. The city stretched beyond the glass, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. She should be thinking about the case, about logistics, about anything other than the way Isabel’s voice had made her toes curl.
This was a problem.
She had always prided herself on discipline, on control. It was why she was where she was—a captain, respected, untouchable.
Her fingers curled into fists. No. This was temporary. A physical attraction to the hot new detective. It would pass. It had to.
Straightening, she inhaled deeply and smoothed a hand down her blouse. There was work to do. This was a case that would either make or break her career. A young woman’s life was on the line.
Her stomach twisted, anticipation and dread warring in her gut.
This was going to be a long day.
2
ISABEL
The blaring screech of Isabel’s alarm yanked her from sleep. She groaned, dragging a hand through her thick, tousled dark brown hair as she peeked at the time. The bright orange numbers blinked rapidly, blaring the time nearly as loud as the alarm sound itself. 4 a.m. was such an ungodly early hour. Isabel was used to the night shift in Chicago, but new beginnings apparently also meant a new shift time. Sighing, she slapped the snooze button and threw the blankets over her head. Just five more minutes couldn’t hurt.
Except five minutes had turned into thirty, and now she was officiallyscrewed.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Isabel muttered as she ripped the covers off and bolted upright. The morning light filtering through her blinds caught the faint freckles across her bronze skin, a reminder that she spent more time in the sun in her youth than she probably should have. She threw on a black tank top and grabbed the jeans off the floor from next to her bed. Yanking the jeans over her butt with a little jump, she rushed out of the bedroom.
Her one-bedroom apartment was still more boxes than home - half unpacked stacks lining the walls, the couch was buried under clothes she hadn’t found space for yet. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard, and the air conditioner rattled unevenly in the window.
Yet, amidst the chaos, small touches made it hers. A handful of framed photos were already set on the nightstand and the tiny kitchen counter - her mom laughing mid-conversation, her younger sister grinning at the camera, an old candid of Isabel with her brothers during a beach trip years ago. A worn leather jacket hung off the back of a dining chair, the only piece of clothing she’d neatly placed.
She dashed into the bathroom, barely flicking on the light as she shoved her toothbrush into her mouth. The mirror reflected the rushed blur of her - bronze skin, dark eyes still heavy with sleep, and the faint shadow of her undercut peeking through as she ran a wet hand through her hair. The shower would have to wait.
Darting back into the main room, she yanked open a suitcase on the floor, rifling through until she found a clean button-up shirt. Her chucks were sitting on top of a box labeled “kitchen.” Close enough.
She threw them on, grabbed her leather jacket, and was out the door in under five minutes.
Her damned car.
The old sedan coughed like a lifelong smoker when she turned the ignition. Isabel clenched her jaw, willing the thing to start, but it only sputtered before dying completely.
“Oh, come on, you piece of - “
