Chapter 409
Chapter 409:
Isolde kept her eyes straight ahead. “I am working. Unlike some people who rely on inheritance to fund their mistakes p>
Grayson’s jaw tightened. He stopped and turned to face her, blocking the path. “Stop this, Isolde,” he said. “Stop this ridiculous bet. You lost the Leland contract. You are bleeding out.” He took a step closer. “I can help you. I will buy out Carson Dynamics and give you a senior executive position. You don’t have to fight anymore p>
Isolde looked up at him and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You still think I want to be kept,” she said, shaking her head. “You still think I am a pet that ran away p>
“I am trying to save you from bankruptcy!” Grayson argued, his frustration bleeding through.
“I don’t need your help, Grayson,” Isolde said, her voice hardening into steel. “I want your respect p>
“You have it!” Grayson insisted. “That is why I am offering you a way out p>
Isolde stopped completely. She squared her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye.
“You are not offering a way out,” she said, her words slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You are offering a cage. Gilded, but a cage nonetheless.” She stepped closer, invading his space, her eyes blazing with cold fire. “I am done with cages, Grayson p>
Grayson felt a surge of desperation. He reached out, his large hand closing around her upper arm. “Isolde, please p>
Isolde wrenched her arm back, recoiling from his touch as though he had burned her.
𝖣isсo𝘃𝖾𝗋 𝘩і𝖽dе𝗇 g𝘦𝗆𝘀 о𝗻 ѕ.𝘤𝘰𝗺
“Do not touch me,” she hissed, her entire body rigid.
Up on the terrace, Seraphina Lancaster, Grayson’s sister, was watching them with a sneer.
“Lunch is served!” Seraphina called out, shattering the moment.
Grayson’s hand dropped to his side. He drew a long, ragged breath. The desperation vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, impenetrable mask of the CEO.
Isolde smoothed her coat, her face returning to a flawless, emotionless slate.
They turned and walked back toward the house, side by side but miles apart — two complete strangers preparing for war.
The formal dining room was a cavern of dark mahogany and heavy velvet drapes.
The long table was set with antique silver. Grayson sat at the head. Isolde sat halfway down, flanked by hostile family members. The kitchen staff pushed through the swinging doors carrying large silver platters and set the main course at the center of the table.
Roast pheasant.
Grayson stood and took the carving knife. He sliced a perfect, thick piece of the dark meat, placed it on a gold-rimmed plate, and handed it to the servant with a gesture toward Isolde.
“From the season’s first hunt,” he announced, his voice carrying through the quiet room.
The servant placed the plate in front of Isolde.
She stared down at the dead bird. It had been flushed from the brush, chased by dogs, and shot out of the sky for sport.
It was exactly how this family viewed her. Prey.