Chapter 210
“That marriage is dead,” Isolde said flatly. “And to him, the Isolde he thought he could control is dead too.”
Arland checked his watch and looked up from his tablet. “There’s an art exhibition today at the Met. Professor Nelson will be there — he’s the keynote for the Symposium. It might be a good moment to be seen, before the storm hits.”
Isolde looked down at her wrinkled clothes, then over at Effie, sleeping peacefully on the sofa. She thought about the years she had spent shrinking herself so Grayson’s ego could fill the room.
“We’ll go,” she said, her voice firm. “I want Effie to see something beautiful. I want her to see the real world. And I want the world to see that I’m still standing.”
The gallery in Upper Manhattan was a temple of minimalist luxury — a pristine white void where the air felt expensive and the silence carried the weight of curated history.
Arland had arranged for a stylist to come to the hotel. Isolde wore a sharp, tailored white pantsuit that radiated a cold, architectural power. Beside her, Effie looked like a miniature princess in a navy velvet dress, her small hand tucked firmly into Isolde’s good one.
They moved through the exhibits slowly. Isolde leaned down, whispering to Effie about the composition of a landscape, explaining how the light had been captured to create depth. Effie listened with wide, curious eyes, nodding as though she understood the very soul of the brushstrokes.
“That one is lying,” Effie said suddenly, pointing to a portrait of a smiling socialite. “The colors are all messy and angry underneath.”
“Well, well.” A sharp, sneering voice cut through the quiet. “If it isn’t the former lady of the house. I’m surprised they let you in. Did you manage to scrape together enough for the entrance ticket, or are you still living off someone’s charity?”
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Isolde stiffened. She turned slowly.
Daron McKnight stood there, a glass of champagne in hand and a mocking smirk on his face — Grayson’s most loyal subordinate and a devoted sycophant for Belle.
Behind him, Grayson and Belle approached. Belle was draped over Grayson’s arm like a trophy, wearing a vibrant red dress that demanded attention. Grayson looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes deeper than before, but his posture straightened the moment he saw Isolde. He looked her over, a flicker of relief crossing his face at her recovered appearance, though his words remained clipped.
“You’re out of the hospital. Should you be running around so soon?”
Isolde didn’t even look at him. She turned back to her daughter. “Come, Effie. Let’s look at the pieces over there. The air is getting a bit thin here.”
“Wait a moment.” Belle stepped forward, blocking their path. She looked down at Effie with a saccharine smile. “Effie, you look adorable. It’s such a shame about your mother’s taste, though.” She eyed Isolde’s white suit with a condescending tilt of her head. “Is that from a few seasons ago? I suppose when you leave the Lancaster family, ‘budget’ becomes your new favorite word.”
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