Chapter 354
Isolde stared at Nolan’s hand resting heavily on Grayson’s shoulder. She saw the violent twitch in Grayson’s jaw. He was drunk, angry, and humiliated — and a public brawl at his mistress’s father’s funeral would be a disaster. Isolde refused to be the center of that spectacle.
She wrenched her arm backward.
Grayson’s sweaty grip slipped. She stumbled back half a step, rubbing her wrist where his fingers had left red marks against her pale skin. Then she looked at Nolan.
“It’s fine, Nolan,” she said, her voice tight but controlled. “He’s just leaving.”
𝖠𝗱𝖽𝗶cti𝘷е 𝗇о𝘃𝗲𝘭𝘴 on g𝖺𝗹𝗻o𝗏е𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗈𝗺
She stepped toward Grayson and leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant only for him.
“Do not make a scene here,” she hissed. “You are already a joke.”
Grayson’s bloodshot eyes locked onto hers. He breathed heavily through his nose, held Nolan’s gaze for one long, murderous second, then turned on his heel.
“Car,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Now.”
Isolde retrieved her clutch, gave Nolan a brief, apologetic nod, and followed Grayson through the French doors, keeping a careful distance behind his broad back. She moved through the lobby and out onto the pavement in silence, fury burning beneath her skin, her heart hammering adrenaline through her veins.
The black Maybach slid to a stop at the curb.
The valet reached for the rear door, but Grayson didn’t wait. He closed his fingers around Isolde’s elbow and steered her into the back seat — not roughly, but with a firm, non-negotiable pressure that left no room for argument. She landed on the soft leather, heels scrambling for purchase, and Grayson climbed in right behind her. The heavy door slammed shut.
Click.
The electronic locks engaged. The sound was sharp and final in the quiet cabin.
Isolde looked up. The thick, soundproof privacy partition between the rear seat and the driver was already raised. He could not see them. He could not hear them.
The air inside the car turned suffocating almost immediately. It smelled of expensive leather and the sharp, sour reek of whiskey seeping from Grayson’s pores. He reached up and yanked his tie further loose, popping the top button of his shirt.
“Who is he?” Grayson demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Isolde pressed her back against the door, putting as much distance between them as the cabin allowed. “A stranger,” she said coldly. “Unlike you, he has manners.”
Grayson let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Manners? He was hitting on you — and you were letting him.” He shifted his weight and slid across the leather toward her. “You enjoy this. You enjoy humiliating me in public. Smiling at other men while I bury a family member.”
“He was not your family,” Isolde shot back, her disgust boiling over. “Where is Belle? Why aren’t you comforting the grieving daughter?”
“She is with her mother,” Grayson said dismissively, sliding closer still until his large thigh pressed hard against her knee.
Isolde shrank back until her shoulder blades met the cold glass of the window. “Grayson, you are drunk. Move away.”
.
.