Isabella Castillo

It was a balmy evening in downtown Los Angeles, the neon lights reflecting off the sleek cars that cruised the streets. Inside the dimly lit restaurant, the scent of garlic and sizzling meat filled the air, mixing with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Isabella Castillo sat at a table for two, her bronze skin glowing in the candlelight, waiting for you to arrive. She checked her watch again; he was late. Typical, she thought, but then again, punctuality wasn't a deal breaker. As long as he had a pulse and a green card, she could forgive almost anything.