Chapter 491

Chapter 491:

He wore a navy bespoke suit that fit him like a second skin, but it hung on him now, the breadth of his shoulders somehow diminished. His face was gaunt. Shadows clung to the hollows beneath his eyes, and his jaw was set in a line of grim endurance. He was not looking at his phone. He was looking at her — his gaze a mixture of awe and deep, bottomless regret.

Harper let out a small, strangled sound behind her and reached for Isolde’s elbow.

“Isolde, we can wait for the next one p>

The heat rose in Isolde’s chest — not embarrassment, but a cold, hard resolve. Why should she wait? Why should she yield space?

“This is a public utility, Harper,” she said, her voice cool and even.

She walked into the elevator, turned around, and pressed the button for the twelfth floor.

𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯

The doors closed, sealing them in a box of polished mahogany and silence.

The air pressure seemed to drop. She could hear the fabric of Grayson’s suit rustle as he shifted his weight. She could smell him — sandalwood and that crisp, clean scent of rain that had once been her favorite smell in the world. Now it was simply the scent of a past she had surgically removed.

“Isolde,” Grayson said. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. “Congratulations on the ISSDC. It was… incredible p>

She did not look at him. She stared at the floor numbers ticking upward. 4… 5… 6…

“Thank you,” she said. “Please don’t block the panel, Mr. Lancaster p>

He took a half-step toward her, then stopped himself. The movement was hesitant and lost. The confined space made his sorrow seem enormous.

“I saw the news,” he said, his voice dropping low. “About Effie… the custody arrangement. You didn’t have to be so generous p>

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She kept her face perfectly still.

“It wasn’t generosity, Grayson,” she said quietly. “It was a business decision. She’s better off p>

He flinched. His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out — to undo years of neglect with a single, useless gesture.

The elevator chimed. Floor twelve.

The doors slid open.

A man was standing in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with his ankles crossed, radiating a kind of lazy, predatory elegance. He wore a white linen suit — no tie, top button undone — that stood out starkly against the corporate gray of the corridor. He was tall. Taller than Grayson. And he was smiling at her as though he had been waiting for this exact moment his entire life.

“Isolde Carson?” he drawled. His accent was a clipped, polished British baritone. “My uncle Cyrus mentioned you might be needing a lift p>

Isolde blinked. “Sterling p>

“Sterling Knight,” he corrected, pushing off the wall. He did not glance at Grayson. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the elevator door sensor, holding it open. “Your designated driver. And baggage handler, apparently p>

Grayson stiffened. The air in the elevator turned volatile.

“Knight?” Grayson said sharply. “You’re with Knight Capital. Cyrus sent you p>

Sterling finally looked at Grayson. He scanned him from head to toe with an expression of mild amusement, as though regarding a stain on an expensive rug.

“Sorry, mate,” Sterling said. “This elevator is over capacity p>

“There are only three of us,” Grayson snapped, a flicker of his old arrogance surfacing.