Squinting at her phone, Isabel scrolled through email after email while keeping her ear open to Spencer as he worked through his list for the meeting.

            "It's so white," he added, changing gears. He spun on slick, black loafers, hands on narrow hips dressed in cream slacks cuffed at the ankles. "So...white."

            "It's a blank canvas." Isabel substituted absently, frowning at her most recent correspondence with Mrs. Duarte, head of the Heart and Stroke Foundation committee. The woman was proving to be more than a pain and she'd only just signed the paper work last Monday on an charity fundraiser booked for late fall.

            "It's boring." Spencer frowned, then slid his cobalt blue eyes to the front doorway hidden behind the wall of fake palm trees as he added under his breath, "This isn't the one. We can do better."

            "That is for the client to decide," Isabel sang out as she caught sight of Victory and Niobe, flush with laughter and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls as they clattered up the steps to join her and Spencer in the loft's waiting area.

            "Ladies." Isabel beamed, tucking her notebook to chest, slotting the pen in the spiralled spine.

            "Bel, sorry we're late" Victory glanced around the lounge seating—white and stark as the walls—confused. "We are late, aren't we?"

            "Apparently they're running behind schedule." Isabel answered with air quotes and a roll of her eyes.

            Niobe arched a brow. "It's been fifteen minutes," she said slowly, carefully.

            "Yes, I know but—Oh, Mr. Beran!" Isabel called out as a short, blading man in a slick grey suit, his shoes slapping with a hurried stride as he'd tried to blow past them without so much as a backward glance.

            "Yes, yes," he bobbed with a thin smile, adjusting the knot of his tie without even slowing his stride. "Five minutes. Only five more."

            Oh no, Isabel thought, she knew when someone was ducking and dodging. As she had longer legs, and the height advantage, cutting him off wasn't hard to manage.

"You do realize that our appointment was scheduled for nine?" Isabel swung in front of him forcing Mr. Beran to rear back like a pony on stumpy legs. She'd softened the abruptness of her barricading his path by addressing him sweetly but her deep blue eyes snapped with irritation.

            "I understand," Mr. Beran adjusted the knot of his tie again. A weary, impatient gesture she'd seen a hundred times over, in her career and one she was not at all bothered by.

Intrigued by the spectacle playing before them, Victory edged closer and frowned disapprovingly. His ruddy cheeks glowed with booze, and even from the distance and over the stink of aftershave, she caught the smell.

"Only five more minutes." He took a step right, but familiar with the dance, Isabel countered, keeping her body square with his.

            "I've taken the liberty of exploring what I've been able to see of the space, but perhaps we could have a something to look over while we wait?"

            Cocking a hip, beady eyes narrowing a degree with impatient hostility, Mr. Beran sighed. "What would you suggest?"

            "Oh, I don't know," she shrugged absently, astounded that she needed to spell out the obvious. "A portfolio, perhaps?"

            "Unfortunately we don't have one, at present," he answered curtly. "Our marketing director is in the process of putting a new portfolio together but that won't be ready until the middle of next week. Now if you'll excuse—" He veered left—shot right, but Isabel knew how to spot a faint from her fights in the ring, and kept on him.

"I believe a few sample photographs from previous events wouldn't be too much to ask."

"Yes, well," Mr. Beran scraped the edge of his nail over the tip of his blunt nose, "I would show you, but the majority of our client base are some of the most illustrious celebrities...and, well, I'm sure I don't need to explain the importance of respecting our clients privacy to you."

This time when he attempted to pass her, Isabel let him go.

Having overhead the exchange, war glittered darkly in Niobe's eyes. "Pompous, arrogant—"

"I need to make a call." Isabel snapped out her phone from its holster, glanced over at Victory while Niobe continued to rant in a fluid stream of barely contained ire. "Keep her calm. I'll take care of this."

A few phone calls and near a half hour later, Niobe was quietly seething into a latte Spencer had dashed out to get, and Isabel had returned almost the same instant that Patricia Beran, a tall and painfully slender woman with sharp elbows and thighs as slim as Victory's arm, deigned to finally appear.

Dressed in a suit the colour of rich cream with a row of fat, glistening pearls looped around her severe throat, with ringlets of over processed hair, stringy and frayed blonde, piled away from her assertive features. She flashed bleached teeth, white as the loft walls, and crossed the distance to take Niobe's hand delicately with her fingers, touching as little of her as possible.

"My dear," her thin smile cut across a long face that a discerning eye could see might have once hedged on pretty in her youth but had since been ruined with years of tanning beds, botox and visits to a middle tier surgeon. "So sorry to have kept you waiting. The meeting ran much later than expected. You do understand?"

"Naturally." Niobe replied through clenched teeth, and either Patricia was a complete idiot or lacked the simple decency to feel ashamed for the near forty-five minute delay.

"With only ten minutes to spare, surely we should just reschedule this appointment for another day?"

"Ten minutes?" Isabel questioned softly, placing herself strategically between Niobe and Patricia in case her client saw fit to strangle the woman. "Our appointment is for an hour. Certainly, since we've kept here patiently for a rather inconsiderate length of time, the least you could do is honour our appointment."

"Yes, well," Patricia's smiling laugh sang out as she waved a hand, "I know it's an inconvenience, but my next client, due imminently, is the mayor's daughter, and well, one must make allowances for public officials. You do understand?"

Now it was Isabel who clenched her teeth. "This is completely unacceptable. Not only do I find you rude and incompetent, but you lack even the basic fundamentals of professionalism."

The amused dismissal slid off Patricia's face, and while her eyes shone with temper, her taught features failed to reflect even a flicker of emotion.

"I don't like the implications of your tone."

"And I don't like having an hour of my day wasted by yourself and your uncooperative husband."

Thin arms banded across Mrs. Beran's narrow chest. "Yes he told me about your incessant demands for venue pictures and event photographs, but as he explained—we're in the process of reworking our portfolio, and what we do have on hand are highly confidential and therefore cannot be released to civilians. You do understand?" 

            Hearing the sputtering voice of Mr. Beran, off floating in the distance, Victory glanced over her shoulder to see Samuel, face grim and stride determined, while Mr. Beran bounded at his heels, babbling and panting.

            "...such an honour—a privilege—to receive you!"

            Ignoring Mr. Beran's sycophantic praise, Samuel veered straight for Niobe and swept her into his arms for a sweltering kiss. "I'm sorry I'm late, my love. Things on set were brutal."

            "Oh—yes, that's alright." Always quick to recover, Niobe faced an ashen Patricia. "I trust my fiancé requires no introduction."

"Fiancé? You—engaged—Sam—? Oh, my, well," hand at her throat, Patricia anxiously twisted her rope of pearls. "I had no idea. Ms. Pierce, if you'd only let us know...I would have—"

            "Behaved more like a brown nosing kiss ass?" Victory supplemented sweetly earning a snickering high five from Spencer.

            "Mr. Russell and his fiancée felt it necessary to withhold their identities while in the presence of a civilian." Isabel replied, sapphire eyes brilliant with icy fire. "You do understand."

            A flush—temper or embarrassment—rose into the Patricia's cheeks, turning them a splotchy and blistered red. "If you think you can come in here—"

            Ignoring her, Isabel faced Niobe and Sam. "I think we're done here. We still have a few other locations to go through. I've called ahead to the Hyatt to reconfirm for this Thursday. The numbers are still hedging on seven hundred, correct?"

            Hearing the distinct and terrifying sound of money slipping away, Mr. Beran, his wife caught in an irrecoverable and disastrous tailspin, leapt in to salvage the meeting.

            "An unfortunate misunderstanding," he pushed Patricia back a step and took her place, the wide palate of his baldhead slick in a nervous sweat. "Certainly no need to over react. Truth is, Sam—may I call you Sam?—no one can do what we do. Just last week, I was speaking with Lindsay—oh, Ms. Lohan, that is—and she herself can attest that we are the best event this city has to offer.

"Lights, media—we can make your wedding the grandest soiree to rival any film premiere. Toronto shall never see the like of it again. You'll be the talk of all the papers."

"I want a wedding, Mr. Beran. A wedding. Not a media circus or publicity stunt." Linking his hand with Niobe's Samuel turned on his heel, swept cool eyes over the Berans, and shook his head with measured disgust.

He'd never seen two people so well suited to one another and for all the wrong reasons.

"This isn't the venue for us." 

#

            "Civilians," Niobe snorted, eyes glinting with annoyance over the memory. "Can you believe her nerve?"

            "Yes, but did you see her face?" Victory bubbled out a laugh, the dimples she'd often hated in her youth fluttered in her cheeks. "And her husband?" Turning off the kettle, she poured boiling water into a mug holding a bag of chamomile tea, drizzled in honey. "Man, I thought his heart popped in his chest when he saw Sam walk through the door."

            "Yes, well," sitting on the armrest of the couch, Isabel gave a flick of her silvery blonde tail, "the pair of them deserved the punch to their pride. Couple of snobs. First with keeping us waiting, and second with all that self-importance. They had you pegged before you set foot in the establishment, and were quick to deem you as no one of import. So, I decided to set them straight, and made a quick, discreet, call to Sam."

            "You hit them where it hurt," Ed agreed. "Right in the wallet."

"I don't often fight dirty," Isabel smiled brilliantly and with just a hint of the edge she showed her opponents whenever she squared off to fight in the ring, "but every now and then a low blow is necessary to deflate an oversized ego."

            "Remind me never to get on your bad side." Ed smiled as he squeezed in next to his wife, Aubrey, on the couch with Niobe who sat with her face pressed into a pillow.

            "I know you and Sam had wanted to keep the engagement as quiet as possible and away from the press." Isabel pointed out, drumming her fingers on the armrest of the chair. "But now I think it's safe to assume that come tomorrow the world is going to know all about Russell and Pierce tying the knot."

            "Niobe answered with a groan into the pillow.

            "I hope you're not upset with me for blowing your cover.

            "No," Niobe sighed, dropping the pillow to smile reassuringly. "No, I am not upset with you, Isabel. In fact, I was almost set to do the exact same thing. But now, I guess I'll have to check in to the Fairmont to keep the papers out of your face." She shifted her gaze apologetically to Victory. "Looks like you're not going to get much coverage on your restaurant's soaring and successful official launch on Monday, either."

            "Bee, don't stress yourself over that." Victory brought over the mug of chamomile tea, handed it to her. "Business is set to start with a bang, which is more than I could have ever hoped for. Now, go enjoy your tea on the terrace. Mom, dad, why don't you keep her company while I have a quick chat with Sam and Isabel?"

            "Oh, certainly. Come sweetheart," Gathering Niobe to her side, Aubrey and Ed fussed over her as they strolled through the French doors and settled into the seating.

            "That was sweet of you," Isabel murmured as the three of them stood there, watching the silent moving tableau of Aubrey and Ed with Niobe. "Creating this moment to help take her mind off of her frustration."

            "She's so busy worrying over details. All I've done is given her a new bone to chew on. Besides, she needed a moment alone with them to..." There, she knew the instant Niobe had asked the big question, because she saw the spectacle of her parents' faces.

            Joy, in the way her mother's eyes gleamed, the press of her hand to her chest where the emotion swelled, fit to burst. Pride and simple love, in the tremble of her father's strong chin before the glint of tears...

            The three of them stood, locked in an embrace, creating an image of family, not of blood but of heart, forged in love and affection.

Family, that was what they were, after all. Friends by chance and sisters, not by blood but by choice.

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