The day Isabella tried the second hole Isabella adjusted the thin strap of her emerald-green dress for the tenth time as the elevator doors opened onto the rooftop. The summer night air hit her like a warm promise, carrying the low thump of bass and the sharp scent of expensive cologne mixed with citrus cocktails. At twenty-nine, she knew she looked good. The dress clung to her full C-cup breasts and hugged the dramatic flare of her hips before stopping high on her toned thighs. Her long dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and her heels made her legs look endless. She had come alone tonight, telling herself it was just to network. Deep down she knew she was hunting for something far less respectable. The party was already in full swing. Fifty or so of the city’s most beautiful and connected people moved under strings of soft gold lights. A sleek infinity pool glowed turquoise on one side, while a larger jacuzzi bubbled on the other. Low white loungers and wide outdoor beds with thick cushions were arranged in clusters, half of them already occupied by couples who had given up pretending they were here for conversation. The host spotted her almost immediately. “Isa,” Marcus called, his deep voice cutting through the music. He was thirty-eight, built like a former athlete who still lifted heavy, with a trimmed beard and eyes that always seemed to undress people before they spoke. His black shirt was open at the collar, showing a hint of chest hair. “You finally showed up. I was starting to think you’d flake.” “I don’t flake on rooftops this nice,” she answered, letting him pull her into a hug that lasted half a second longer than polite. His hand settled low on her back, fingers brushing the