Chapter 347
Isolde’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. She could refuse. She could call her own car. But that would be a small, predictable battle, and this was war. In war, you sometimes take the humiliating path to reach the ambush point.
She gave a cool, barely perceptible nod and took the front seat. The soft leather felt cold against the backs of her legs.
Grayson spoke to her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Remember the rules,” he said. “You smile. You nod. You leave.”
Isolde watched him in the mirror. “And if someone asks about Carson Dynamics?”
“You say it’s a hobby project,” Grayson said.
Isolde gripped her purse. “A hobby.”
“Yes. Don’t embarrass me with your career talk. No one cares.”
Isolde turned to look out the window at the rain streaking the glass.
A memory surfaced without permission — their honeymoon, Grayson holding her hand. We’ll build the future together, Isolde. The distance between that man and this one made her heart harden into stone. She wasn’t obeying. She was gathering intelligence, cataloging every weakness for the final strike.
𝘔оs𝘁 𝗋𝖾а𝗱 𝗍𝗵i𝘴 𝘄e𝖾𝗸 o𝗇 g𝘢𝘭𝗇𝘰𝘷𝗲𝗹ѕ.𝘤𝗈𝘮
“Understood,” she said.
She wasn’t agreeing. She was finalizing the divorce in her soul.
The car slowed. St. Patrick’s Cathedral rose through the rain ahead of them, its stone façade darkened and slick. Paparazzi swarmed the steps like ants at the scent of something sweet.
Grayson put on his sunglasses.
“Showtime, Mrs. Lancaster,” he said.
The cathedral loomed above them, gothic and imposing against the rain-heavy sky.
The driver opened the door. Camera flashes went off in blinding succession.
Grayson stepped out first and buttoned his jacket. He didn’t offer Isolde a hand. He simply walked ahead and waited for her to exit the passenger side on her own.
Isolde stepped onto the wet pavement and stood tall, smoothing her dress.
“Mr. Lancaster!” a reporter shouted. “Is it true you’re back with Belle?”
Grayson ignored them and moved toward the entrance. Isolde followed a few steps behind, like an afterthought.
Belle was waiting at the top of the stairs, dressed in black lace and a veil — too dramatic, too theatrical. She looked like a grieving widow from a telenovela, not a daughter burying her father.
She came down the stairs and threw herself into Grayson’s arms.
“Gray! I can’t do this without you!” she wailed.
Cameras clicked furiously around them. The couple shot.
Isolde stood to the side. Alone in the rain.
Then a shadow fell over her.
Liam appeared with a large black umbrella and held it above her head.
“Ma’am,” he said softly. “You look cold.”
Isolde smiled faintly. “Thank you, Liam.”
She climbed the stairs past the embracing couple. Belle spotted her over Grayson’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“Why is she here?”
“Optics,” Grayson muttered. “Just ignore her.”
Isolde entered the cathedral. The hush inside was heavy, the air thick with incense and damp wool. She scanned the pews — the elite of New York, filling them row by row. Her targets.
Aunt Lydia Lancaster intercepted her in the aisle, pearls clutched, expression set like concrete.
“You have some nerve showing up here,” Lydia hissed.
“Grayson insisted, Aunt Lydia,” Isolde said evenly.
.