Chapter 74:


    Grayson held up a hand. A key fob dangled from his index finger, the Volvo logo glinting in the light.


    “The roads are winding,” Grayson said smoothly. “And you’re emotional. I can’t in good conscience let you drive. It’s a liability.”


    He pocketed the keys.


    Isolde felt the blood drain from her face. It was a trap. They were in the middle of nowhere — no rideshare, no taxi.


    D????????????? ??????de?? ??е??? ??n g???????????????.co??


    “Give me my keys, Grayson.”


    “We leave tomorrow morning,” he said. “Together. We’ll drop Effie at school, and I have a meeting in the city. It’s efficient.”


    Isolde clenched her fists. She could fight him for them, but physically he was stronger. And she would not brawl in front of Effie.


    “Fine,” she said tly. “Tomorrow. But get out of my way.”


    Grayson smirked and stepped aside. “See? Compromise. That’s how marriage works.”


    “We aren’t married,” Isolde reminded him.


    “On paper, we are,” he countered, and walked away whistling.


    Isolde went back into the room. She dragged a heavy armchair across the floor and wedged it firmly under the door handle.


    “Mommy?” Effie asked from the bed.


    “Just a game, baby,” Isolde said. “Fortress.”


    That night, Isolde didn’t sleep. She sat in the armchair and watched the door. Effie tossed and turned, whimpering in the dark.


    “Don’t hit me… don’t…”


    Isolde’s heart broke with every sound.


    Monday morning arrived under a gray, overcast sky. The house was a flurry of activity, Mrs. Higgins packing a cooler with Beatrice’s medications.


    Isolde dragged their suitcase down the stairs, Effie trailing close behind her.


    Grayson stood in the foyer checking his watch, immacte in a navy suit.


    “Put the bags in the Maybach,” Grayson ordered the driver.


    “No,” Isolde said clearly. “Give me my keys. I am driving my car.”


    Grayson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Isolde, don’t start this again. We’rete.”


    “I am not getting in a car with you,” Isolde said. “Keys. Now.”


    They stood in the narrow foyer, locked in a standoff of wills.


    “You are being childish,” Grayson snapped. He held a ceramic cup in one hand — a double espresso, steaming hot.


    His phone rang. The ringtone was specific, a soft melodic chime. Belle.


    Grayson’s face softened instantly. He answered, turning slightly away from Isolde. “Hey, Belle… I know, I’m leaving now…”


    Effie was standing by the stairs. She had just realized she’d left her coloring book on thending. She saw the adults arguing, saw her mother distracted. Panic seized her. She needed her book.


    She bolted.


    She ran toward the stairs, cutting between the wall and Grayson.


    Grayson was focused on Belle’s voice in his ear. He didn’t see the small blur of blue.


    His leg caught Effie. He stumbled. His hand jerked.


    The cup of espresso — boiling hot from the machine — flew from his grip.


    The dark liquid sshed across Effie’s bare arm and shin.


    For a moment, there was no sound at all. Then Effie screamed. It was a sound that tore through the house, high and jagged and raw.


    .


    .


    .