Chapter 526

Chapter 526:

It was the same bed they had chosen together years ago. The same bed they had shared for years. A familiar detail that pressed on both of them without a word being said.

Grayson knelt at the bedside and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. The heat he felt there deepened the line between his brows. He reached for her hand — cold and limp — and wrapped his around it.

When he spoke, his voice was rough with something he couldn’t contain.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick? Why did you suffer through it alone p>

Isolde kept her eyes closed. Tears slid slowly down her cheeks and soaked into the pillowcase. Her voice came out faint and hollow.

𝗪𝖾e𝗄lу r𝖾𝗹𝖾𝗮sеѕ оn.с𝗼m

“Tell you…” she whispered. “What would be the point, Grayson? It never matters p>

The words were barely audible. They hit him like something heavy and blunt, driving a dull, crushing ache through his chest.

He had no answer. Only the helpless, settling weight of regret.

The scent hit her first.

Not the sterile, acrid smell of a hospital, nor the dusty, old-money perfume of the Lancaster main hall. Cedar. Crisp, cool cedar threaded with the faint metallic tang of rain.

A scent that used to mean safety. Now it smelled like a trap.

Isolde’s eyes snapped open.

The ceiling above her was high, shadowed, and unfamiliar. She tried to sit up, but her body felt as though it had been filled with lead. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and drove her back into the pillows.

Her fingers curled into the fabric beneath her. Dark grey silk. Cool to the touch.

Panic, sharp and immediate, cut through the haze of her fever. She knew these sheets. She knew this room.

The master suite.

She turned her head. The movement made the room tilt. Effie was there — curled in a velvet armchair pulled close to the bed, fast asleep. Her small fist clutched the corner of the duvet so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Isolde’s heart hammered. She had to get out. She had to get Effie out. This house was a shark tank, and she was bleeding in the water.

She pushed herself upright. A sharp tug on her left hand stopped her.

She looked down. An IV line was taped to the back of her hand, the clear tube snaking up to a bag of fluids suspended from a sleek black medical stand.

Fluid replacement. Antipyretics.

Isolde didn’t care. She reached over with her right hand, gritted her teeth, and ripped the tape free.

The needle slid out with a stinging burn. A single drop of bright red blood welled up on her skin and slid slowly down her knuckle.

She ignored it. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet met the plush carpet, but her knees were water. She grabbed the nightstand to steady herself and knocked over a crystal glass. It didn’t shatter — it rolled silently onto the carpet, spilling its contents without a sound.

Isolde took a step toward Effie.

The heavy mahogany door swung open.