Chapter 284
Isolde stood. Her legs felt numb, but her spine was steel. She shoved the tablet into her purse. “Process it. I’ll be right back.”
She walked out of her cubicle — not toward the lobby, but directly past the open door of the adjacent booth.
Liam was still on the phone, studying a glossy real estate brochure. He glanced up casually, then went still. Every trace of color left his face. His mouth fell open. The brochure slipped from his fingers onto the desk.
“Mrs. Lancaster…” Liam choked out.
Isolde didn’t stop walking. She didn’t even turn her head.
“It’s Ms. Carson, Liam,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet bank like a scalpel.
She pushed through the heavy glass doors and out onto the busy Manhattan street. The afternoon sun hit her face, blinding and hot.
𝗠𝗼ѕ𝘁 𝘳e𝖺𝖽 t𝘩is 𝗐eek on 𝗀a𝗹𝗻o𝘷𝖾ls.сo𝗆
She pulled out her phone, her fingers already moving across the screen. She dialed her lawyer, Attorney Davis. He answered on the second ring.
“Isolde? Did the auction go smoothly?”
“The auction is done,” Isolde said. She stared up at the towering glass skyscrapers. Somewhere up there, Grayson was sitting in his office, certain he had won.
“Draft the divorce papers, Davis.”
Davis paused. “Are you sure? We haven’t finalized the asset division strategy. And the cooling-off period in New York is tough — once you file formally, it’s public war.”
Isolde looked at the distant skyline. The Lancaster tower loomed against the blue, a dark needle piercing the sky.
“I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” Isolde said. Her heart beat a slow, steady rhythm of pure resolve. “Irreconcilable differences. File it today.”
“Understood,” Davis said softly.
“Burn the bridge, Davis,” Isolde whispered into the receiver. “Burn it all down.”
The Lancaster Penthouse on the Upper East Side was usually suffocatingly perfect. Today, it was a disaster zone.
Cardboard boxes were stacked high in the living room. The expensive Persian rugs were rolled up and shoved against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Isolde was kneeling on the hardwood floor, packing.
Ellyn Briggs sat on the edge of the pristine white sofa, her face pale, her thin hands wringing together in her lap. She looked fragile — fresh out of the hospital, the stress of the last few weeks carved deep around her mouth.
“Isolde, are you absolutely sure about this?” Ellyn asked, her voice trembling. “The Carson Estate needs millions in repairs. The roof leaks. The plumbing is ancient.”
Isolde grabbed a roll of packing tape and dragged it across a box with a loud, tearing screech.
“It’s our home, Mom,” Isolde said, pressing the tape down hard. “We will fix it.”
“But where will you get the money?” Ellyn pleaded. “Grayson said you took out a terrible loan. He said you’ll lose the house to the bank in a year. If you just stay here, let him pay for this place…”
Isolde stopped. She dropped the tape dispenser on the floor, stood up, and walked to her mother. She knelt in front of the sofa and took Ellyn’s shaking hands in hers.
.