Chapter 6
Chapter 6:
The Toyota smelled of stale pine air freshener and old cigarettes. To Isolde, it smelled like freedom.
She watched the Manhattan skyline recede through the window. She wasn’t looking at the buildings; she was looking at the timeline in her head.
One year.
She had one year to save Effie. One year to build a fortress that Grayson couldn’t breach.
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Effie murmured, leaning her head against Isolde’s arm.
Isolde checked her purse. She had the emergency cash stash she had sewn into the lining of her clutch years ago—a habit from her days as a racer, when you always needed “getaway money.” Two thousand dollars. It wouldn’t last long in New York.
“We’re going to have a picnic,” Isolde said.
They checked into a mid-range hotel in Midtown. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was clean. The room was small, with beige walls and a view of a brick alleyway.
Isolde paid in cash.
𝗪𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷е𝗿уо𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘀 rе𝖺𝖽іn𝘨 on
“No credit card on file,” she told the clerk. “I value my privacy p>
Once inside, she ordered a pepperoni pizza.
When it arrived, Effie looked at the greasy box with wide eyes. “Daddy says pizza makes you fat p>
Isolde felt a spike of rage. “Daddy is wrong,” she said firmly. She handed Effie a slice. “Pizza makes you happy p>
Effie took a bite, cheese stretching. She giggled.
Isolde sat at the small desk. She reached into her bag and pulled out a second phone. A burner. She had bought it from the Uber driver for $50 cash during the ride.
She popped the back open and inserted a SIM card she had kept hidden in her locket for five years.
She booted it up. It was an old model, clunky, but secure.
She navigated to a ProtonMail login page.
User: Valkyrie_X7 Password: p>
She hit enter.
The inbox loaded. It was full. Hundreds of unread messages.
Sender: The Institute.
Subject: Where are you? Subject: Project Phoenix needs you. Subject: Contract Offer — Level 5 Clearance.
Isolde’s eyes scanned the dates. They had been emailing her for five years.
Back at the penthouse, the party was over.
The silence was deafening.
Grayson walked into the master bedroom. It was empty. The closet door was open. Isolde’s clothes were still there—the gowns, the shoes. She had taken nothing.
Mrs. Higgins knocked on the door frame. She looked terrified.
“Mr. Lancaster p>
“What?” Grayson snapped.
“I found this… in the trash compactor p>
She held up a crumpled piece of paper. Grayson smoothed it open. It was a handwritten note.
I, Isolde Carson, hereby declare my intent to dissolve my marriage to Grayson Lancaster due to irreconcilable differences and emotional abandonment.
Grayson scoffed. He crumpled it again and threw it on the floor.
“She’s bluffing,” he muttered. “She’ll be back when the credit card bill comes due. She can’t survive out there. She doesn’t even know how to book a flight p>
From down the hall, a wail erupted.
“I want Isolde!” Kaiden was screaming. “Mommy Belle doesn’t know how to make the cocoa p>
Grayson winced. He walked to the door.
“Belle!” he yelled. “Handle him p>
“I’m trying!” Belle’s voice came back, shrill and stressed. “He won’t stop crying p>
Grayson slammed the door. He walked to the mini-bar and poured a scotch. He looked at his hand. The ring finger felt light.
He took a drink. It burned, but it didn’t numb the strange, gnawing feeling in his gut. The feeling that he had just lost something he didn’t even know he owned.