Chapter 283
Grayson let out a heavy sigh — the sigh of a man dealing with a stubborn child. “I am trying to help you. I know you are angry. But you need to be practical. I can pay off the mortgage on the penthouse and put the deed in your name. That way, you and Effie have a secure place to live in the city.”
A harsh, dry laugh scraped its way out of Isolde’s throat. “The penthouse? The penthouse is your property, Grayson. It’s decorated with your taste, filled with your staff, located in your building. You don’t want to give me a home. You just want me kept in a box that you own.”
“That is entirely unfair,” Grayson snapped, his temper fraying. “I am offering you a multi-million dollar asset, free and clear!”
“Keep it,” Isolde said. “I’d rather sleep on the floor of this empty house than spend another night breathing your air.”
She hung up without waiting for his response.
An hour later, Isolde was in downtown Manhattan.
𝘚𝗁𝗮rе y𝘰𝗎𝗋 𝘵𝘩𝘰u𝗴htѕ 𝗼ո 𝘨𝘢𝗹nо𝗏𝖾𝗅𝘀.соm
She walked into the Private Wealth Management branch of Vanguard National Bank. The interior was sleek — frosted glass, polished steel, and quiet money. She was escorted to a small glass-walled cubicle to wait for her personal banker. The walls offered visual privacy, but the acoustic dampening was poor.
Isolde settled into the leather chair and pulled out her tablet to review the tax documents.
Then she heard it.
A voice from the adjacent cubicle. Muffled, but unmistakable.
It was Liam. Grayson’s executive assistant.
Isolde froze. Her finger stopped moving on the screen. She held her breath.
“Yes, Mr. Lancaster wants the title for the Southampton property expedited,” Liam was saying, his voice a hushed, urgent murmur that carried through the thin glass. “The one under the ‘Blue Heron Trust’ designation.”
Isolde’s stomach dropped. The blood drained from her face.
Southampton.
Last year, Isolde had found a beautiful historic property there. She had asked Grayson to buy it as a summer home — somewhere Effie could have a yard. Grayson had dismissed the idea immediately. A bad investment, he said. Fifteen million dollars was too expensive for a house they would only use three months a year.
“Correct,” Liam continued, his voice dropping lower. “Ms. Escobar is overseeing the renovation plans personally. And please stress to the architect that the east-wing nursery is the top priority. She wants it ready by the fall.”
The tablet in Isolde’s hands felt like a block of ice.
Ms. Escobar. Belle.
A nursery.
Isolde’s vision blurred, the edges of the frosted glass walls seeming to warp around her. Grayson was secretly buying a fifteen-million-dollar estate for his mistress — building a custom nursery in the exact town he had told Isolde was too expensive. And just an hour ago, he had called to offer her the penthouse mortgage. A two-million-dollar scrap. A handout to keep his discarded wife quiet, while he built an empire for someone else.
The disparity wasn’t merely financial. It was a precise, brutal measure of her worth in his eyes.
The glass door of her cubicle opened. Her banker, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, stepped in with a warm smile. “Ms. Carson? We’re ready to process the tax wire.”
.
.