Chapter 27:


    Grayson breathed heavily. His hand was tangled in Effie’s hair. He could feel the small, frantic beat of her heart against his ribs. It was a bird-like rhythm, terrified and fast.


    For a second, he didn’t let go. He looked down at her face. Her eyes were wide, staring up at him. They were his eyes. The same shape, the same color.


    “Daddy?” Effie whispered. The word was a question, fragile as ss.


    Grayson felt a physical jolt in his chest. A squeeze. It was an instinct he had buried underyers of ambition and resentment.


    “Grayson!” Belle’s voice cut through the moment like a siren. “Kaiden is shaking! That woman scared him!”


    The spell broke.


    Grayson flinched. He looked at Isolde, who was standing over them, her face pale. He looked at the photographers, who were lowering their cameras, sensing a moment that was too real for the tabloids.


    He pushed Effie away.


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    He stood up, brushing the grass from his expensive trousers. He stepped back, putting distance between himself and the child he had just saved.


    “Control your daughter,” Grayson said. His voice was ice cold, but his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. “She shouldn’t be provoking him.”


    Isolde pulled Effie up, checking her head, her arms. Then she looked at Grayson. Her gaze was filled with a mixture of pity and disgust.


    “That was instinct, Grayson,” she said softly. “You can’t deny it.”


    Grayson stiffened.


    “Too bad,” Isolde continued, “that you’re trying so hard to kill the only decent part of yourself.”


    Grayson’s jaw clenched. He looked at Effie onest time, then turned away.


    “Belle, get Kaiden. We’re leaving.”


    He grabbed Kaiden’s hand, roughly pulling the boy toward the waiting town car. Belle scrambled after them, shooting a venomous look at Isolde.


    Isolde watched them go. She knelt down and wiped a tear from Effie’s cheek.


    “Don’t cry, baby,” she whispered. “We’re going to win. We’re going to win everything.”


    Isolde sat on the edge of the hotel bed. Her phone was vibrating against the nightstand.


    Harper Vance.


    Isolde stared at the name shing on the screen, a sudden lump forming in her throat.


    Harper wasn’t just the most ruthless divorce attorney in New York; she was the only bridge left to the person Isolde used to be.


    They had been roommates in college. While Isolde disappeared into the shadows of domestic life, Harper had wed her way to the top of the legal food chain. She was the only friend who had never stopped calling, even when Isolde stopped answering—the only one who knew where the bodies were buried, and exactly who had buried them.


    Isolde picked up. “Hello?”


    “Are you seeing this?” Harper didn’t say hello. She was shouting. “I swear to god, Isolde, if I wasn’t awyer, I’d be a hitman. I’d take him out myself for what he’s doing to you.”


    “Seeing what?”


    “Twitter. X. Whatever. Look at the trending topics.”


    Isolde put the call on speaker and opened the app.


    #LancasterPerfectFamily was the number one trend in New York.


    She tapped it.


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