Chapter 518
Chapter 518:
Despite the distance and the dark, Grayson was certain she had found him. Her gaze had moved directly to where he stood in the shadows.
There was no anger in her eyes. No longing. No recognition of anything worth feeling. Only a flat, complete indifference — the look one gives a stranger who doesn’t merit a second glance.
The engine turned over. The car eased away from the curb and merged into the flow of traffic, growing smaller until it disappeared entirely into the night.
Grayson remained where he stood, something hollow spreading through his chest, as though a piece of him had been removed without ceremony. A cold, numbing ache settled in its place.
Daron stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Stop looking. Let it go — old ones leave, new ones come. She’s just a woman. She’s not worth this p>
Rеa𝘥 𝗐𝘪t𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪n𝘁𝘦𝗋𝗿𝘶𝗽𝗍𝘪o𝗻𝘴 𝗼ո ѕ.со𝘮
Grayson shrugged his shoulder away so sharply that Daron stumbled back a step.
“Don’t touch me,” Grayson said, his voice cold and flat. “I want to be alone p>
He turned and walked back into the VIP suite, leaving Belle and Daron without a glance. The room still held a faint trace of the earlier confrontation. On the table sat the unopened bottle of whiskey he had meant as a gesture — untouched, irrelevant now.
He dropped onto the sofa and pulled out his phone. His fingers were unsteady as he opened his photo album. At the very top was a photograph he had kept for five years and never deleted.
Isolde, just after giving birth to Effie — still slightly frail, the newborn cradled in her arms, sitting in the hospital garden in warm afternoon light. She was smiling softly, her eyes full of brightness and quiet hope as she looked into the camera.
Grayson stared at the photograph, his gaze tangled with pain and something he couldn’t quite name. One question turned in his mind, slow and relentless: Was that light gone now? Had it moved to Arland — never to turn toward him again?
He reached for the whiskey glass, filled it, and took a long, burning swallow. The liquor scalded his throat and resolved nothing. He gripped the phone tighter, his expression darkening into something set and cold.
No. He had not signed away his parental rights. Effie was his daughter.
And Isolde — she was his too.
Isolde had returned home late the previous night, utterly drained. She carried the sleeping Effie inside, barely found the energy to change clothes, and collapsed into bed after a quick wash — exhaustion and the evening’s unpleasantness pressing down on her like a weight.
Morning sunlight seeped through the curtains. She got up to make breakfast, and when she stepped outside to collect the fresh milk, she stopped.
A delicate white square box rested quietly on the doormat, standing out sharply against the entryway floor. It was tied with a neat dark blue ribbon — high-end satin, a shade that struck her as oddly familiar though she was too distracted to place it.