Chapter 49:


    Midnight Rose.


    It was Belle’s perfume.


    Isolde wrinkled her nose. The scent was everywhere. It clung to the curtains, the sofa, the air itself. It was as if the apartment had been marked.


    She walked quickly to the study. She opened the wall safe—the code was still her birthday,zily unchanged—and grabbed the documents.


    She was turning to leave when she heard the front door beep.


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    Isolde froze.


    “I hate school!” a voice screamed.


    Kaiden.


    The nanny dragged him in. Kaiden threw his backpack on the floor.


    He looked up and saw Isolde standing in the hallway.


    For a second, he looked surprised. Then a nasty sneer curled his lip.


    “You’re back,” Kaiden said. He didn’t sound happy. He sounded entitled. “Make me a sandwich. I’m hungry.”


    Isolde stared at him. “Hello to you too, Kaiden.”


    “Turkey and cheese,” Kaiden ordered, walking toward the kitchen. “Cut the crusts off. The nanny does it wrong.”


    Isolde didn’t move. “I’m not your maid, Kaiden. Ask your nanny.”


    Kaiden stomped his foot. “Dad said you’re supposed to take care of us! That’s your job!”


    Isolde felt a spike of anger. That’s your job. That’s what Grayson had told him. That she was staff.


    The front door opened again.


    Grayson walked in.


    He looked disheveled. His tie was loose, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled of scotch and… Midnight Rose.


    He stopped when he saw Isolde. His eyes widened, a flicker of hope sparking in the dull gray.


    “Isolde?” He took a step forward. “You came back. I knew you would.”


    Isolde held up the man envelope. “I came for Effie’s papers. For school.”


    Grayson’s face fell. The hope vanished, reced by irritation. “Just papers? You hacked into my house for papers?”


    “It was my house too, Grayson. Until three days ago.”


    Kaiden ran to Grayson and hugged his leg. “Dad! She won’t make me a sandwich!”


    Grayson looked down at his son, then at Isolde. He looked exhausted. He rubbed his temples, a gesture of pure fatigue. “Isolde, please,” he said, the words slipping out from a ce of old habit rather than conscious thought. “Just make him a sandwich. He’s hungry. You know how he likes it.”


    Isolde looked at him as if he had grown a second head.


    “Are you serious?” she asked.


    The cold disbelief in her tone seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He blinked, a flicker of awareness crossing his face as he realized what he’d just said in their now-hostile reality. His exhaustion curdled into defensive anger.


    “It’s a sandwich,” he snapped. “Don’t be petty. You used to love him.”


    “I used to love a lot of things in this house,” Isolde said coldly. “Before they rotted.”


    She sniffed the air. “And speaking of rot… you might want to open a window. The smell of your mistress is suffocating.”


    Grayson flushed. “That’s… Belle left some samples here. Don’t start.”


    “I’m not starting anything,” Isolde said. She walked past him toward the door. “I’m finishing it.”


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