Chapter 242
Grayson set the report down. He walked over, picked up the iPad, and looked at the screen. The red exclamation mark glared back at him.
A sudden, irrational spike of panic hit his chest. He pulled out his own cell phone and dialed Isolde’s number.
It rang once, then went straight to a generic voicemail.
Grayson lowered the phone. His jaw clenched tight. She was shutting him out — completely. She was building a wall he couldn’t climb over.
Belle walked into the room, holding a glass of wine. “Oh, Gray, don’t look so upset. Isolde is just being petty. Who holds a grudge against a little boy?”
Grayson didn’t look at her. He stared at his phone screen.
“Cancel my morning meetings tomorrow,” he said, his voice hard. “We are going to the Royal Pines Polo Club. Kaiden, get your riding gear ready.”
Belle’s eyes lit up. “Oh! A family day at the club? That sounds perfect.”
Grayson didn’t answer. He gripped his phone tightly. He needed to see Isolde. He needed to prove to himself that he still had some shred of control over her.
𝘔оs𝘁 𝗋𝖾а𝗱 𝗍𝗵i𝘴 𝘄e𝖾𝗸 o𝗇 g𝘢𝘭𝗇𝘰𝘷𝗲𝗹ѕ.𝘤𝗈𝘮
The morning sun over the Royal Pines Polo Club was blindingly bright. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, expensive leather, and horse sweat.
Isolde held Effie’s hand as they walked through the massive, pristine stables. The club manager, a balding man with a clipboard, hurried over with a wide, welcoming smile.
“Ms. Carson! It has been far too long. Which horse would you like today?”
“Find a gentle pony for Effie,” Isolde said, her voice relaxed. “As for me—”
Before she could finish, a horrific crashing sound echoed from the far end of the stables, followed by a shrill, terrifying whinny. Three stable hands ran out of the shadows, their faces pale with panic.
“Manager! It’s Tempest! He’s gone completely mad! He just kicked through the stall door!”
Isolde’s eyes sharpened. Tempest was a massive, pitch-black Thoroughbred, notorious at the club for his violent temper. She let go of Effie’s hand. “Stay right here with the manager, baby.” Then she walked briskly toward the commotion.
“Ms. Carson, wait!” the manager called, chasing after her. “It’s too dangerous! We are going to have to put the beast down if he doesn’t calm down!”
Isolde ignored him.
She reached the end of the corridor. Inside the reinforced stall, the black horse was rearing up on his hind legs, his hooves smashing against the wooden walls. His eyes were wide and rolling with terror, foam dripping from his mouth.
Isolde didn’t back away. She stepped directly in front of the open stall door and closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, tapping into a muscle memory buried deep in her past — the survival training, the tactical animal handling from her days before Grayson.
Then she opened her eyes and began to hum.
It was a low, rhythmic, guttural sound that vibrated in her chest, cutting through the noise of the kicking hooves.
Tempest froze.
.