Chapter 46:


    Isolde felt a strange sense of peace settle over her. Thest thread of doubt, the tiny voice that whispered maybe he cares, finally snapped.


    She picked up her phone. She typed a message to Grayson.


    Isolde: Don’t wait for me. I’m noting. Give the ring to the person you actually chose.


    She hit send. Then she turned off her phone and went back to the Legos.


    “Mommy,” Effie said, holding up a stic brick. “This piece doesn’t fit.”


    “Then we find a new one,” Isolde said, kissing the top of her head. “We build something better.”


    Grayson sat at the head of the long table in the private dining room at Per Se.


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    He hade anyway.


    After dropping Belle and Kaiden off—Kaiden turned out to have a mild temperature, nothing serious—Grayson had felt a gnawing anxiety. He had driven to the restaurant, hoping, irrationally, that she might be there.


    The room was dimly lit by candles. A centerpiece of white roses—her favorite—sat mocking him.


    The chair opposite him was empty.


    He poured himself a ss of whiskey. He drank it in one swallow.


    He looked at the velvet box sitting on the tablecloth. The pink diamond glittered in the candlelight. It looked cold.


    His phone buzzed. A text from Belle.


    Belle: Kaiden is asleep. Thank you for being such a good dad. You’re my hero.


    Grayson stared at the words. My hero. It felt hollow. He realized, with a start, that Belle always praised him when he did what she wanted. It was transactional affection.


    The door to the private room opened.


    Grayson’s head snapped up.


    Isolde walked in.


    She wasn’t wearing a gown. She was wearing jeans and a simple white blouse. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun. She wore no makeup.


    She looked beautiful. And she looked like a stranger.


    Grayson stood up, knocking his chair back. “Isolde. You came.”


    Isolde didn’t smile. She walked to the table. She didn’t sit.


    She was holding arge man envelope.


    “I’m not staying,” she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of the anger he expected.


    “Please,” Grayson gestured to the chair. “Just sit. Have a drink. We can talk.”


    “No,” Isolde said.


    She upended the envelope over the table.


    Items ttered onto the pristine white tablecloth.


    Her old wedding ring—the five-carat solitaire.


    The ess fobs for the penthouse.


    The ess fobs for the Hamptons house.


    The ck Amex card.


    The ess fobs for the Bentley he had bought her for her birthday.


    They made a discordant jingle as they settled next to the pink diamond.


    “What is this?” Grayson asked, his voice trembling.


    “This is everything you gave me,” Isolde said. “This is the identity you bought for me. Mrs. Lancaster. The trophy wife. The mother to your mistress’s son.”


    “Isolde, stop,” Grayson pleaded. He reached for her hand.


    She stepped back. “Don’t.”


    “We can fix this,” Grayson said desperately. “I’ll fire Belle. I’ll send her away. Just tell me what you want.”


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