Chapter 178
Chapter 178:
Nelson watched them go, his face grim. “That man,” he muttered to Arland, who had just arrived with a first aid kit, “is trading a diamond for a handful of gravel p>
“He’s blind,” Arland said, kneeling beside Isolde. “Isolde, we need to clean that knee. And your hand needs fresh dressing p>
Isolde stared at Grayson’s retreating back. “I’m not going to the gala dinner tonight p>
“I didn’t expect you to,” Arland said. “Go home. Rest. But you know he’s going to spin this. The annual company retreat is tomorrow at the estate — he’ll use it as a victory lap, with Belle on his arm. It’s a PR move to save face p>
Isolde looked at Effie, who was wiping her eyes, trying to be brave.
“We’ll be there,” Isolde said, her voice hard. “Effie wants to see the horses. And I have unfinished business p>
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He stepped back half a step, a sharp grunt of pain escaping his lips, but he quickly straightened, letting the blood drip. His eyes never left his grandmother’s face. A thin line of bright red had welled up instantly, running down his cheek. He did not wipe it away.
“You surrendered our core AI asset for a whore!” Beatrice screamed, her cane slamming into the floor. “You have betrayed the blood of this family p>
Grayson stared at his grandmother. His eyes were completely dead.
“It was my personal asset,” Grayson replied, his voice a hollow rasp. “I did what I had to do to protect this family from the alternative p>
Beatrice rose to her feet, her frail body shaking with rage.
Grayson’s lips curled into a dark, twisted smile. Neutralize her. Recover the assets. The bridge was not merely burned — it had been vaporized, and Isolde held all the ashes.
He turned and walked out of the study without another word.
He went to his private bedroom and locked the door. In the bathroom, he stood before the mirror, studying his reflection. The blood was drying on his cheek. He looked like a ghost.
His phone buzzed on the marble counter.
It was an email from his secretary — the final confirmation itinerary for Kaiden’s admission dinner at the elite Ivy League prep school next week. According to the strict social conventions of the Upper East Side, Isolde was legally required to attend as his wife to maintain the family’s facade.
Grayson gripped the edge of the marble sink. His knuckles turned white.
Everyone wanted a facade. Everyone wanted to pretend the Lancaster empire was still flawless.
A dark, unhinged light flared in Grayson’s eyes. He was going to walk into that dinner and detonate the final bomb — taking everyone down with him.
The shift from the sterile, high-stakes environment of the Javits Center to the sprawling green ostentation of the Lancaster Estate in the Hamptons was jarring. Grayson had framed the annual SkyLine retreat as a mandatory celebration of their “success” — a desperate attempt to control the narrative after Isolde’s public triumph. For Isolde, it wasn’t a party. It was the final stage of a war, and she was here to see it through.