Chapter 70
Chapter 70:
“Good morning, my loves,” he said, his voice rich and theatrical. “Did you sleep well p>
He stood and walked toward Isolde, leaning in for a kiss. Beatrice watched from the head of the table like a hawk.
Isolde turned her head at the last second. Grayson’s lips grazed her ear.
“Play along,” he hissed, his breath warm. “Don’t upset her p>
Isolde pulled back and offered him a smile that was all teeth. “You really missed your calling, Grayson. Hollywood lost a star p>
𝘙o𝗆𝖺𝗻𝖼e 𝗻𝘰𝘷𝘦l𝗌 𝗼𝗇 𝗀аlnо𝘃е𝗅ѕ.𝗰𝗈𝘮
Grayson ignored the jab and turned to Effie. He crouched down and spread his arms wide. “Come here, princess. Give Daddy a big hug p>
Effie froze. She looked at his hands — large, manicured hands. The same hands that had pushed Kaiden behind him the day before. The same hands that had never held her when she cried. The cheerful clink of silverware faded to a dull hum in her ears, and her breath caught in her throat.
A small, high-pitched sound escaped her. She scrambled backward, putting Isolde between herself and her father. She grabbed fistfuls of Isolde’s skirt and buried her face in the fabric, her small body trembling.
Grayson remained crouched, his arms embracing empty air. His smile faltered, twitching at the corners.
Beatrice set her teacup down. The clink was deafening in the silence.
“It seems,” Beatrice said dryly, “that your approval rating is rather low, Grayson p>
Grayson stood and brushed nonexistent lint from his knees, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. “She’s just… she has morning moods. Like her mother p>
Isolde placed a steady hand on Effie’s head. “She doesn’t have moods. She has a memory p>
Seraphina drifted into the room wearing a silk dressing gown and holding a mimosa. She leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “God, the drama. Is she afraid of her own father? Or did you coach her to do that, Isolde p>
Isolde didn’t dignify that with a response. She lifted Effie into her chair and began buttering a piece of toast.
Grayson, desperate to regain control of the room, grabbed a serving fork. He speared two pieces of crispy bacon and dropped them onto Effie’s plate.
“Here,” he said, his voice pitched too high. “Your favorite. Crispy bacon p>
Effie looked at the plate as though the food were poison. She shrank back in her chair.
“I can’t eat that,” she whispered. “My skin gets itchy p>
Grayson’s smile tightened. He didn’t look at Effie but at Beatrice, performing the role of a concerned, modern father. “Nonsense, sweetheart. That was when you were a baby. A little bit won’t hurt you. You need to build a tolerance p>
The silence that followed was absolute. It wasn’t a mistake; it was an indictment. He was dismissing her known allergy as a childish whim — a direct challenge to everything Isolde had built to keep her safe.
Beatrice let out a sigh that sounded like a tire deflating. “Grayson. Are you a doctor now? Leave the child’s diet to her mother p>