Isabelle Carter’s hands moved with practised precision, her fingers working the dough as she kneaded it in the dim light of the bakery. The smell of yeast and fresh bread filled the small, cluttered space, a comforting presence amidst the ever-present ache of her existence. At 24 years old, Isabelle had become accustomed to the rhythm of baking—mixing, shaping, and scoring the loaves—and the weight of the life she led. By day, she was a humble baker, her skin light and her features soft, a facade that veiled the shadow of her nightly work.

  Her small bakery, tucked between two crumbling tenement buildings in a poor part of London, was the only place she could escape to for moments of peace. Her little sister, Amelia, sat in the corner, her angelic face a stark contrast to the gritty, worn-down streets outside. Amelia was seven—too young to understand the hardships Isabelle had endured, but old enough to feel the quiet sorrow that lingered in the house.

  "Isabelle," Amelia's soft and curious voice broke the silence. Isabelle glanced over at her sister, who had her small hands wrapped around a piece of bread, nibbling thoughtfully.

  "Yes, darling?"

  "I drew a picture," Amelia said, pushing the sketch toward Isabelle. The image was simple—a house with a white picket fence and two figures standing in front, arms around one another. It was a drawing of a life Isabelle had longed for—one where they weren’t scraping by, hiding in the shadows, running from debts and danger.

  "It's lovely," Isabelle said, her voice softening. She smiled at her sister, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "One day, we'll have that. I promise."

  Amelia smiled back, the innocence of her optimism comforted Isabelle, even as the harsh reality of their lives loomed. Isabelle returned to her task, her mind still clouded with the weight of everything she had to do to make that promise a reality.

  The bell over the door jingled, breaking the quiet. Isabelle turned, heart skipping as she saw the messenger standing in the doorway. He was tall and well-dressed, with a glint in his eye that made Isabelle uneasy. She knew exactly why he was here.

  "Miss Carter," he said in a low, almost respectful tone, "a letter for you."

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  Isabelle nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and walked toward him. She took the letter, the wax seal a familiar mark she had long grown accustomed to: a crow holding a dagger. It was from her boss, or rather, the man who controlled her life in the shadows.

  "Thank you," she said briefly before the man left as quickly as he had entered. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  Isabelle,

  The time has come for your next assignment. The man you will eliminate is Lord Edward Hawke, a nobleman with more wealth than he knows what to do with. His influence has only grown over the years, and his vices have become more notorious. His actions have harmed those who are beneath him—those who are already suffering. Your task is simple: infiltrate his household, gain his trust, and eliminate him.

  This job will pay handsomely. More than enough to finally pull you and your sister out of the filth you call home. You’ll find him at the annual gala next week. Don’t waste this opportunity, Isabelle. The clock is ticking.

  —Your Employer

  Isabelle folded the letter, her heart pounding in her chest. Lord Edward Hawke. The name was both an opportunity and a curse. A nobleman, one of the very men who had helped build the barriers that kept her family in poverty. It was men like him who had destroyed entire families, including her own, leaving her with no other choice but to turn to the dark side of the city for survival.

  Her thoughts shifted to Amelia. This job could change everything for her. With the money she’d make, they could escape the slums, get a proper house, send Amelia to school, and leave the dangers of London behind.

  But something gnawed at her, a feeling she hadn’t expected. She hadn’t met the man, but the very idea of killing him felt like more than just another assignment. Lord Hawke. She didn't know why, but the name struck her, and for the first time in a long while, she hesitated.

  She had always completed her jobs, no questions asked. She was an assassin, and that was her role. But this… this one felt different.

  "Isabelle?" Amelia's voice broke through her thoughts again. She looked up to see her sister standing with her arms crossed, a small frown on her face. "What’s wrong?"

  Isabelle shook her head, tucking the letter into her apron. "Nothing, darling. Just tired, I think." She smiled, forcing the lightness she didn’t feel. "Come on, let’s get some rest. Tomorrow’s another busy day."

  Amelia didn’t seem convinced, but she said nothing as she walked to the small cot they shared in the corner. Isabelle finished closing up the bakery for the night, her mind spinning. The decision she was about to make would change everything.