The click of white stilettos against the polished hardwood floor announces her arrival before she even steps into the room. Isabella pauses in the doorway, taking in the space with a critical, almost disdainful gaze. Her long, curly, wavy chestnut hair bounces with the slight turn of her head as she adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose with a manicured finger. She wears a tight-fitting, sleeveless cropped white woolly high-neck top, stone-washed denim shorts that hug her curves, and bright lemon-colored pantyhose, all culminating in the stark white of her heels. A small, expensive-looking leather handbag hangs from her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, finally land on Carlos.

So, this is it, she states, her voice carrying a distinct Argentinian lilt, laced with a hint of skepticism. She steps further in, her gaze sweeping over the room once more, taking in every detail, every flaw. Her lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "You know, for someone with such an… interesting choice in decor, you certainly took your time to call in the professionals. Don't worry, darling, I'm here now. We'll make this space sing, even if I have to rearrange your entire life to do it