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Chapter 679
Chapter 679:
Belle heard the desperation bleeding through the phone speaker. A vicious, jealous panic flared in her chest. She could not let Grayson save Isolde’s family.
She slid closer to him and placed her hand high on his thigh.
“Gray,” Belle murmured softly, her voice dripping with artificial, intimate sweetness. “Who is it? Come back to me p>
The sound of Belle’s voice transmitted perfectly through the line.
Isolde stopped breathing.
She was standing in a sterile hospital hallway, watching doctors pump her uncle’s chest to keep his heart beating — and her husband was sitting in the back of a luxury car, being caressed by the woman who had destroyed their family.
The pain that tore through Isolde’s chest was so severe she physically doubled over. It felt as though her heart were being crushed in a vise.
Grayson heard Belle speak. He felt a spike of defensive anger. He remembered Isolde threatening him in his office. He remembered her cold, dead eyes, and the contempt radiating from them.
His toxic pride reared its head. He wanted to punish her for making him feel weak.
“Isolde,” Grayson said, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical register. “I cannot interfere with a legal family court injunction. That would be a violation of the law p>
“Grayson, he is dying,” Isolde whispered, her voice a hollow, broken rasp.
𝖥𝗶n𝘥 𝘯𝗈𝘃е𝗹 PD𝖥𝗌 𝗈𝗇
“This is the reality of the adult world, Isolde,” Grayson lectured, his cruelty precise and deliberate. “You wanted independence. You wanted to play hardball. This is what happens. You must respect the spirit of the contract. I am not your ATM anymore p>
Isolde closed her eyes. The tears stopped. The despair drained away, replaced by a freezing, absolute void.
“If it were the Lancaster heir lying in that bed,” Isolde said, her voice completely dead, “would you talk to me about the spirit of the contract p>
Grayson hesitated. The question struck something. But his arrogance pushed him forward.
“That is a ridiculous comparison,” he snapped. “I have a gala to prepare for. Handle your own family drama p>
Click.
The line went dead.
Isolde stood in the hallway, listening to the dial tone.
Her legs gave out. She slid slowly down the cold tiled wall until she reached the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms.
She was completely broken. The last microscopic thread connecting her to Grayson Lancaster had just been severed. She sat in the dark abyss of her failure, waiting for the doctors to come and tell her it was over.
Then a pair of expensive, hand-stitched leather shoes stopped inches from her knees.
“Ms. Carson,” a deep, resonant voice spoke above her — a voice filled with absolute, commanding authority. “Are you in need of assistance p>
Isolde slowly raised her head.
Through her blurred vision, she saw a tall man standing over her. He wore a pristine white lab coat over a dark, tailored shirt. He had sharp, aristocratic features and wire-rimmed glasses that caught the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. His eyes were a deep, piercing brown, radiating a calm, clinical intensity.