Chapter 245
Isolde looked at Belle — at her brand-new, stiff leather boots and her perfectly styled hair. She was a prop, not a rider.
“I am not interested,” Isolde said coldly.
“What’s wrong?” Belle sneered, her confidence inflating. “Are you scared you’ll lose? Or are you just scared Grayson will see you fail?”
“I don’t race amateurs,” Isolde replied, her voice flat. “It is an insult to my horse.”
Belle’s face flushed with anger. “You! Gray, look at how arrogant she is!”
Grayson stepped forward. There was a strange, calculating light in his eyes. He wanted to see her ride again. He wanted to break through that icy exterior and reach the fire he had witnessed earlier.
“Race her, Isolde,” he said, his voice carrying a heavy weight. “If you win, I will sign your divorce papers today. Exactly as you drafted them.”
Isolde’s head snapped toward him.
Her chest tightened. He was using her freedom as a bargaining chip in a petty game staged to entertain his mistress. The absolute disrespect of the offer made her blood run cold.
а𝘤𝘁𝗂𝘷𝖾 𝘤𝘰𝗺𝗺𝗎𝘯і𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗻 𝘨a𝘭𝘯𝘰𝘷𝖾𝘭s.𝘤о𝗺
Isolde let out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think my marriage to you is a casino game, Grayson?”
She grabbed Tempest’s reins and turned her back on him. “I decline your bet. I do not need your charity to win my freedom. I will take it from you in a courtroom.”
She walked away, leading Effie’s pony out of the ring, her posture rigid — refusing to give them a single inch of submission.
Kaiden stopped crying and stuck his tongue out at her back. “Coward! You’re just a coward!”
Belle crossed her arms, a triumphant smirk spreading across her face. “Let her go, Gray. She knows she can’t beat me.”
Grayson watched Isolde walk away. He didn’t feel like he had won. He felt a hollow, aching void opening up in his stomach.
Belle turned to the stable master. “Bring me a real horse. Not these slow ones. Bring me the painted stallion I saw in the back.”
Isolde, still near the exit, heard the request. She paused and glanced over her shoulder just long enough to see the stable master reluctantly leading out a highly volatile painted horse. Her eyes narrowed — but she didn’t say a word. She turned her head and kept walking.
The main riding track was a vast expanse of manicured dirt and green fencing.
Isolde sat on a wooden bench in the shaded rest area, using a damp towel to wipe the sweat from Effie’s forehead. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the track.
Belle was mounted on the painted stallion, holding the reins far too tight, her posture stiff and unnatural. To compensate for her lack of skill, she was aggressively snapping a riding crop against the horse’s flank. The stallion ran fast, its ears pinned flat against its skull — a universal sign of equine distress.
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