Chapter 336
She opened it. Inside was a simple gold band — her original wedding ring. Not the massive diamond Grayson had upgraded her to later, the one that had always felt like a shackle. This was the ring he had given her when they were young.
Five years ago. Grayson was smiling, his eyes soft and crinkled at the corners.
“We’ll build an empire, Isolde,” he whispered, sliding the ring onto her finger. “You and me. Partners.”
Isolde touched the cold gold.
Where did that man go?
𝖨𝗻𝗌𝗍𝖺ո𝘵 𝗮𝘤𝗰𝗲ss oո 𝘨а𝗅𝗻оvе𝗹ѕ.c𝗼m
The answer came with a clarity that took her breath away. He had never existed.
It had been a pitch. A sales pitch. He had seen a capable woman — a Valkyrie — and he had wanted to acquire her. Like a company. Like an asset. And when she became a mother, when her attention shifted to Effie, he had treated it as asset depreciation. He had simply lost interest.
Isolde closed the box with a snap. She didn’t cry. She was done crying for him.
She walked to the window. The city lights blurred into long streaks of gold and red below.
“I am not an asset,” she whispered to the glass. “I am the market.”
She took the ring out of the box, crossed to the small trash bin in the corner of the room, and dropped it in.
Clink.
It landed on top of a used tissue. Fitting.
The next morning, her phone rang. Arland, without preamble.
“Belle is demanding access to the X7 files. She’s trying to override the permissions.”
Isolde took a sip of her coffee. “Let her have the dummy files. The ones with the overheating bug.”
Arland laughed. “Cruel. I love it.”
“Also,” Isolde continued, her voice shifting to business, “call the realtor. I’m selling the penthouse.”
“The penthouse?” Arland asked. “I thought there was a lien.”
“The lien on the Carson Estate is still being contested,” Isolde said. “But his attempt to freeze the penthouse failed. My lawyers found a procedural error in his filing. The title is clear.”
“He was too arrogant to check the details,” Arland said, understanding dawning in his voice.
“Exactly. Distraction is a weapon.”
She hung up and got dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt. Combat gear for moving.
She drove to the penthouse intending to stage it for the market. She expected it to be empty, silent, gathering dust.
She unlocked the door with her key.
The smell hit her first. Cheap vanilla candles — cloying and sweet.
She frowned and stepped into the living room.
Her breath caught.
There were photographs on the mantle. Photos of Belle. Photos of Kaiden. Grayson’s coat was draped over her favorite armchair. A child’s toy truck sat in the middle of the rug.
They were living there.
They were squatting in her property.
Isolde’s blood turned to ice. The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking violation of it.
“Get out,” she whispered.
Isolde stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by the alien décor of her replacement.
The bedroom door opened.
.
.