Chapter 350
He hesitated. Just a fraction of a second, a slight break in his stride.
His gaze met Isolde’s.
His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them drawn and exhausted. For one unguarded moment, his expression carried something unreadable — not triumph, but a desperate, hollow hunger.
Belle felt the pause. She tightened her grip on his bicep immediately, her manicured nails pressing into the dark wool of his suit.
“Gray?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
𝖳𝗿𝖾𝗻𝖽𝗶𝗇𝗀 ո𝗈𝗏еl𝗌 on 𝗴𝘢𝘭𝗻o𝘷е𝗅ѕ.𝘤о𝘮
Grayson broke the eye contact. The mask returned.
“Keep moving,” he muttered.
They passed through the heavy wooden doors into the grey daylight.
The crowd filtered out row by row. Isolde waited, letting the bodies press past her, allowing herself to be swallowed by the tide of exiting mourners.
She reached into her black clutch and drew out her phone. The screen glowed softly in the dim light. There was a text from Arland.
Survival check?
Isolde’s thumbs moved quickly across the glass.
Still standing. But the air is toxic.
She sent it, dropped the phone back into her bag, and walked out into the rain.
The reception was held at The Pierre.
The ballroom was a sprawling expanse of gold leaf, mirrored walls, and massive crystal chandeliers casting a harsh, glittering light over the assembled mourners. Waiters in crisp white jackets circulated silently, carrying silver trays loaded with flutes of vintage champagne and tiny, intricate hors d’oeuvres.
Isolde stood near a thick marble pillar at the back of the room, holding a simple glass of sparkling water. The condensation made her fingertips cold.
She observed. The protocol of high-society grief was in full swing — hushed, serious voices, but eyes constantly in motion, assessing who was speaking to whom. It was a networking event dressed in black.
Isolde took a sip of water. The bubbles burned the back of her throat.
She saw them approaching from the corner of her eye.
Aunt Lydia and Serena, moving through the crowd like sharks scenting blood, their eyes locked onto Isolde. She tightened her grip on the glass and planted her feet against the thick carpet.
“You are still here?” Lydia asked, stopping in front of her. Her voice was a harsh rasp, loud enough to make a nearby waiter pause. “I thought you would have had the decency to leave after the service.”
Isolde looked at the older woman. Lydia’s neck was draped in heavy pearls that looked like a noose.
“Grayson asked me to stay, Lydia,” Isolde said, her voice perfectly level. “If you have an issue with the guest list, take it up with him.”
Serena let out a sharp, ugly laugh and stepped closer, trailing a cloud of expensive, cloying floral perfume.
“He just wants Belle to see how strong she is,” she said. “He wants her to know you are nothing to him anymore.”
Isolde didn’t blink. “Is that what he told you?”
“He doesn’t have to,” Serena sneered. “Belle brings connections. She brings a fresh face to the Lancaster brand. You? You just brought debt.”
.
.