Chapter 234
Isolde dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor and pulled Effie against her chest, burying her face in her daughter’s small shoulder. The tears came fast and hot, soaking into Effie’s pajama shirt. This was real. This small, warm body in her arms was the only truth that mattered.
Her cell phone vibrated on the counter.
Isolde pulled back, wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, and stood up to answer it.
“Don’t look at the news,” Arland said immediately. “Grayson’s PR team is trying to suppress the trending topics, but it’s backfiring. It looks like a cover-up.”
Isolde stared at the pink paper flower still held in her hand. Her tears stopped. Her jaw locked into place.
“Let them trend,” she said. Her voice was raw but steady. “Arland — about the press conference tomorrow night.”
“Yes?”
“I’m wearing the red dress. And I’m bringing the full data packet on the Orbital Systems thruster project.” She paused. “Let’s give them something real to talk about.”
The flashbulbs were blinding, popping in rapid succession and turning the Monday night air into a strobe-lit frenzy.
𝖱𝗲a𝗱 𝗐𝘪t𝘩o𝗎t 𝘪ո𝘵𝖾𝗿r𝘶𝗉tіо𝘯s 𝗼n 𝗀𝘢l𝗻ov𝖾𝘭𝘀.c𝘰m
The SkyLine Technologies product launch was the event of the season. The red carpet spilled out onto the Manhattan pavement, flanked by velvet ropes and shouting reporters.
A sleek black Maybach glided to a stop at the curb.
The rear door opened. Grayson stepped out, adjusted the cuffs of his tailored tuxedo, and turned to offer his hand. Belle emerged in a silver fringe dress that caught every flash of light. She immediately looped her arm through his, pressing close.
The press surged forward against the barricades.
“Mr. Lancaster! Regarding the photo yesterday!” a reporter shouted over the din. “Is Miss Escobar moving into the estate?”
Grayson’s jaw tightened. He placed a hand on the small of Belle’s back and guided her swiftly toward the entrance, ignoring the barrage.
A minute later, a low-slung silver sports car pulled up.
Arland stepped out of the driver’s side, walked around, and opened the passenger door.
Isolde stepped onto the pavement.
The noise from the press pool died for a fraction of a second. Then it erupted with double the intensity.
She wore a crimson red jumpsuit, the tailoring razor-sharp — a plunging neckline and structured shoulders that made her look like a weapon. Her dark hair was slicked back, her lips painted a matching, dangerous red.
She didn’t look like a discarded wife. She looked like a conqueror.
“Is that Isolde?” a photographer muttered, his camera clicking furiously. “She looks — entirely different.”
Isolde kept her chin high. She didn’t smile. She walked the red carpet with Arland beside her, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete beneath the fabric.
They reached the grand entrance. Two security guards in black suits stepped into their path.
“Apologies, ma’am,” the taller guard said, raising a hand. “Your name doesn’t match the invitation list.”
Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “I’m here as the chief representative for Orbital Systems.”
“The list shows Arland Roth plus one guest,” the guard replied, his face blank. “And there were specific instructions not to admit unexpected guests who might cause a disturbance.”
A soft, mocking laugh floated over from the foyer.
.