Chapter 351
Isolde’s fingers tightened on the glass until she felt the crystal groan under the pressure. A spike of cold adrenaline hit her bloodstream.
“My debts are paid,” Isolde said. The words were clipped and precise.
“But your blood is still cheap,” Lydia spat. “You will always be a mechanic’s daughter playing dress-up in our world.”
A loud, sharp sound cracked through the air.
Thwack.
Heavy wood striking polished marble.
Isolde, Lydia, and Serena all turned.
Matriarch Beatrice Lancaster stood behind them, leaning on her silver-handled cane. Her spine was slightly curved with age, but her eyes were sharp, dark, and furious.
𝗙o𝗅𝗹o𝘸 𝘂ѕ o𝗻 𝘨𝖺𝗹ո𝘰𝘃𝗲𝗅𝗌.𝖼𝘰m
“Lydia. Serena,” Beatrice said. Her voice was not loud. It didn’t need to be. “Step back.”
Lydia’s face went pale instantly. The arrogant sneer dissolved into the fearful obedience of a scolded child.
“Mother,” Lydia stammered, retreating a step. “We were just—”
“You are behaving like fishwives,” Beatrice cut her off, her tone dripping with contempt. “At a memorial service. You are embarrassing the family name.”
Lydia opened her mouth. Beatrice brought the cane down against the floor again.
Thwack.
Lydia snapped her mouth shut.
Beatrice turned slowly toward Isolde. The harsh lines of her expression softened by a fraction. Her dark eyes swept over the severe black dress and the simple diamond studs.
“Isolde,” she said. “You look elegant. Black suits you.”
The tension in Isolde’s shoulders eased slightly. She gave a deep, respectful nod.
“Thank you, Beatrice,” Isolde said.
Beatrice stepped closer, ignoring her daughter and granddaughter entirely.
“Pay no attention to these fools,” she said, dropping her voice to a low, gravelly register. “They forget that you gave us Effie.”
She turned and fixed Lydia with a withering look. “Intellect clearly skips a generation in this family.”
Lydia’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. Serena studied her shoes. Utterly humiliated, both women turned and retreated into the crowd.
Isolde let out a slow, controlled breath.
Beatrice leaned closer. She smelled of old paper and peppermint.
“Grayson is making a mistake,” she whispered.
Isolde looked at her. “Which one?”
“Letting that woman play house.” Beatrice’s eyes tracked Belle across the room, where she was laughing loudly at something a senator had said. “She is a social climber with no substance. But be careful, Isolde.”
The warning in Beatrice’s tone was unmistakably genuine. Isolde frowned. “Careful of what?”
“He is funding something for her,” Beatrice said. “A new venture. He thinks he is buying her loyalty, but he is feeding a parasite.”
Before Isolde could press for details, a man in a sharp suit materialized beside them.
“Mrs. Lancaster,” he said smoothly. “The Senator would love a word.”
Beatrice straightened. The conspiratorial softness vanished from her face.
“Excuse me, Isolde,” she said. She turned and walked away, her cane clicking steadily against the floor.
Isolde stood alone by the pillar and exhaled.
The ballroom air had grown suffocating — a thick blend of heavy perfume, roasted meats, and the breathtaking hypocrisy of the Lancaster family. Her stomach turned.
She scanned the edges of the room. Behind a heavy velvet curtain, the brass handle of a French door caught the light.
.
.