Chapter 349
On his other side, Belle was slumped against his shoulder, her face buried in a scrap of white lace, her shoulders shaking with performative sobs.
A cold knot formed in Isolde’s stomach. The humiliation burned the back of her neck, hot and prickly.
She gave a single, curt nod to no one in particular and leaned back into the hard wood of her own pew. She folded her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. The diamond studs in her ears felt heavy and cold against her skin. Her voice, when it came, was flat and devoid of the hurt they all so desperately wanted to see.
The priest stepped up to the pulpit. The microphone whined briefly before his deep voice filled the cavernous space.
“We are gathered here today to remember Hector Escobar,” he began. “A visionary. A man of deep integrity and boundless generosity.”
A bitter taste rose in the back of Isolde’s throat. She swallowed hard.
A visionary.
Hector Escobar was a degenerate gambler — a mid-level supplier who routinely skimmed off his contracts, who had abandoned Belle and her mother for a decade, only reappearing once Belle secured a billionaire boyfriend.
The eulogy was a masterclass in fiction.
Isolde glanced toward the front row.
Grayson lifted his right arm and drew Belle closer to his side. She leaned into his chest — small, fragile, and utterly dependent. It was the exact image Grayson had always craved. He needed to be the savior. He needed a woman who required his protection, not one who could build an empire without him.
W𝘦e𝗸ly 𝘳𝗲𝘭𝗲𝖺s𝘦ѕ 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘯𝗈vе𝗅𝘀.𝖼o𝗆
A dull, rhythmic ache settled behind Isolde’s sternum.
It was not jealousy. The realization arrived with sudden, crystal clarity.
It was disgust. She was looking at a man she had once shared a bed with, and she felt nothing but a profound physical revulsion.
Aunt Lydia, seated in the second row, turned her head slightly. Her eyes found Isolde’s and her face contorted into a slow sneer. She mouthed a single word through the dim light.
Trash.
Isolde did not flinch. She did not look away.
Instead, she turned her gaze upward, away from the rotting core of the Lancaster family, and looked at the massive stained glass window above the altar. The colors were extraordinary — deep blues, blood reds, vibrant golds — hundreds of fragile pieces held together by rigid, unyielding lead. A masterpiece of engineering and art.
Isolde drew a slow, deep breath. The tight band around her chest loosened.
I am not trash. The thought rang through her mind with the force of a gavel. I am the architect of my own life. They are living in a house of cards.
The service dragged on for another forty minutes. Finally, the priest offered the closing prayer.
The congregation rose. The recessional began.
The pallbearers wheeled the casket down the center aisle. Grayson and Belle followed immediately behind, walking slowly, composed — a tragic royal couple. Grayson’s face was a mask of solemn duty. Belle clung to his arm as though her legs could not support her.
As they passed the third row, Grayson’s eyes flicked sideways.
.
.