Chapter 302
“He lied to my face for five years,” Isolde said. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot, but she kept her voice steady. “He made me raise his mistress’s son. He let me change his diapers and rock him to sleep.” Her hand rested on the cool wood of the table, fingers slowly curling into a fist. “He stole Effie’s resources for himself,” she whispered. The betrayal burned in her chest like battery acid.
Harper stared at her in horror. “What are you going to do? Are you going to leak it?”
“No,” Isolde said. She uncurled her fist, her hand flat on the table again. “The financial penalty for breaching this specific clause is ten million dollars. I cannot afford a legal battle of that magnitude right now.”
She looked at Arland, then at Harper.
“But knowledge is power,” Isolde said, her eyes hard and dry. “I know exactly who he is now. He is not a confused man making mistakes. He is a calculated, pathological liar.”
She set down her glass. “Arland. Tell me about the Tech Summit next week.”
Arland blinked, adjusting to her sudden shift in focus. “Grayson will be there. He is presenting. And Belle will be with him.”
Isolde nodded slowly. A cold, predatory light entered her eyes.
“Good,” Isolde said. “I need to test my new armor.”
She picked up her martini glass and drank the rest of the cold liquor in a single swallow.
𝘘𝗎аl𝗂𝗍𝘆 𝘁𝗿а𝗇s𝗅𝘢tі𝗈𝗇ѕ oո gа𝘭𝘯о𝘷𝘦𝗅𝗌.c𝗈𝘮
Three days later.
The “Innovate NY” Gala was held inside the massive, echoing halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The air carried the scent of expensive floral arrangements and roasted duck.
Isolde attended as Arland’s Technical Advisor. She wore a midnight blue, floor-length gown with long sleeves and a high neckline, completely devoid of exposed skin, yet it clung to her body like liquid armor.
Across the crowded room, Grayson stood near a marble pillar with Daron McKnight.
Belle was not there. She had stayed home, complaining of a severe headache.
Daron took a sip of his whiskey and nudged Grayson’s arm.
“Look who crawled out of the suburbs,” Daron sneered, nodding toward the center of the room.
Grayson turned his head.
He saw Isolde.
She stood beneath a massive crystal chandelier, its light catching the deep blue fabric of her gown. She looked radiant, powerful, and completely untouched by the divorce. There was no sadness in her posture — not a trace of it.
Grayson felt a sudden, violent twist in his gut that made him feel sick. Was it jealousy? Or was it the terrifying realization that he no longer owned her?
He lifted his crystal glass and swallowed his scotch in one gulp. He had been drinking steadily all night, and the alcohol burned like a hot fire through his veins.
Ten minutes later, Isolde excused herself from Arland and made her way toward the women’s restroom. The hallway leading there was dimly lit, lined with ancient Roman statues standing in silent judgment along the walls. It was a quiet, secluded corridor, momentarily empty of the gala’s attendees.
Isolde washed her hands, dried them on a thick paper towel, and pushed the heavy wooden door open to leave.
She stepped out and walked straight into a solid, hard chest.
She gasped and stumbled backward.
It was Grayson.
He stood blocking the narrow hallway, smelling heavily of expensive aged whiskey and his signature cedar cologne.
.