Chapter 1:
Isolde sat in the dark, listening to the silence of a house that no longer held her daughter’s heartbeat. She just gripped Effie’s hand.
It was so cold. Effie was only five. Five-year-olds were supposed to be warm, sticky with juice. They weren’t supposed to be cold.
“Time of death, 8:42 PM. Cause:plications from acute pneumonia leading to cardiac arrest.”
The doctor’s voice was t. Professional.
Isolde’s knees hit the linoleum. She fumbled for her phone, fingers shaking so violently that she dropped it twice before she managed to unlock the screen.
Grayson.
She dialed his private number.
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It rang once. Twice.
Declined.
A secondter, a text message buzzed against her palm.
In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling.
Isolde stared at the screen. The white letters on the gray background blurred.
Five miles away, the crystal flutes at the Lancaster Charity G chimed like delicate bells.
Grayson Lancaster adjusted his silk tie, his expression the perfect mask of bored affability. He stood near the chocte fountain, watching Belle Escobar dab a smudge of fondant from six-year-old Kaiden’s cheek.
“You’re spoiling him,” Grayson said, though the corner of his mouth ticked up. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest thing to warmth he’d shown all evening.
Belleughed, the sound light and practiced. “Someone has to. Where is thedy of the house? I thought Isolde was bringing Effie tonight.”
Grayson’s face hardened. The warmth evaporated. “She’s being dramatic. Effie had a fever or something. Isolde uses the girl’s health as an excuse to avoid these events. She knows I hate it when she sulks.”
“Poor thing,” Belle murmured, though her eyes were already scanning the room for photographers. “She really struggles with the pressure, doesn’t she?”
“She struggles with everything,” Grayson muttered, taking a sip of his champagne.
Back at the hospital, the nurse handed Isolde a stic bag. Inside were a pair of small pink socks and a hair clip shaped like a butterfly.
“Mrs. Lancaster,” the nurse said softly, pity etching fine lines around her eyes. “Is… is your husbanding? For the transport arrangements?”
“He’s busy,” Isolde whispered.
She walked out into the New York night. It was pouring rain. She didn’t have an umbre. She didn’t call a driver. She just walked.
The water soaked through her cheap wool coat. The cold rain mixed with the hot tears she finally allowed to fall, masking them.
She reached the penthouse two hourster.
The apartment was dark. Silent.
On the mantle sat a framed photo—the “family” portrait. Grayson sat in a leather chair, Kaiden on hisp. Belle stood behind them, her hand resting familiarly on the chair back. Isolde was in the background, slightly out of focus, holding a blurring Effie.
She sat on the floor in front of the cold firece, shivering.
It was past midnight when the elevator chimed. Grayson walked in, bringing with him the scent of rain and Belle’s signature perfume—sandalwood and roses—into the stagnant air.
He loosened his tie, his eyes narrowing when he saw Isolde sitting in the dark, soaking wet.
“For God’s sake, Isolde,” he snapped, tossing his keys onto the console table. “What are you doing? Ruining the hardwood floors?”
Isolde didn’t look up. She was staring at her hands.
“Where is Effie?” he asked, his tone clipped. “I assume she’s asleep? Or did you leave her with the nanny so you could sit here and feel sorry for yourself?”
“She’s gone,” Isolde said.
Grayson sighed, rubbing his temples. “Gone to sleep? Good. I don’t have the energy for her crying tonight. Or yours.”
He walked past her toward the master bedroom. He didn’t see the stic bag on the floor.
“Grayson,” she said.
He paused at the door without turning around. “What?”
“Nothing,” she whispered.
He mmed the door.
Isolde sat in the dark, listening to the silence of a house that no longer held her daughter’s heartbeat.
.
.
.