Chapter 79:


    Isolde’s hand paused over the blueprint. The Institute. That was sacred ground. That was where Professor Nelson ruled.


    A slow smile spread across her face.


    “Let her go,” Isolde said. “Let him buy her a seat at the table.”


    “Why?” And asked. “She’ll ruin the reputation of the ce.”


    “Because,” Isolde said, looking up with eyes that gleamed like cold stars, “Professor Nelson eats frauds for breakfast. If she goes there, she won’t just fail. She will be dissected.”


    Isolde turned back to her work.


    The air conditioning in the Aka Wall Street suite exhaled a gust of sterile, refrigerated air — a stark contrast to the humid New York evening outside. Isolde sat on the edge of the beige sofa, a first-aid kit open on the coffee table. She was carefully changing the dressing on Effie’s left arm.


    Effie sat with the rigid posture of a child who had learned that the world was full of sharp edges and boiling liquids. She clutched the hem of Isolde’s zer with her good hand, her knuckles white.


    “Does it hurt?” Isolde asked, her voice low.


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    “Only a little,” Effie whispered, looking at her shoes. Her breath hitched — a tiny, involuntary gasp as the antiseptic wipe grazed the edge of the burn. “Like a sunburn.”


    It was a lie. Isolde knew the sting of a second-degree burn. It throbbed. It pulsed with every heartbeat. But Effie had learned to internalize her pain, trained by a household where her difort was treated as an inconvenience to others. She had learned to hide it because, in that house, pain belonged to no one but herself.


    Isolde finished taping the new gauze, her movements unhurried and gentle. She helped Effie back against the cushions and turned on the television, finding a cartoon about a sponge living in a pineapple. The mindless noise was a balm.


    Isolde’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.


    She nced at the screen. FaceTime: Kaiden.


    The name no longer evoked love — it evoked the sound of shattering ss and cruelughter. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the red button. But old habits died hard. Five years of conditioning. Five years of being the only mother figure that boy had ever truly known.


    She tapped green.


    The screen filled with the chaotic interior of the Penthouse living room. Expensive Lego sets, a drone with a broken propeller, and discarded wrappers were strewn across the floor. Kaiden sat on the white leather sofa, face flushed, holding an iPad too close to his nose.


    “Isolde!” he shouted. No greeting. No question about his sister.


    Isolde kept her face neutral. “Hello, Kaiden.”


    “I’m hungry,” he whined, the sound grating like metal on metal. “The chef made sea bass. It smells like feet. I want your mac and cheese. The one with the breadcrumbs.”


    Isolde nced at Effie. Effie was staring at the television, but her shoulders had drawn inward. She was listening. She was shrinking.


    “Kaiden,” Isolde said, keeping her voice steady. “I am not there. And Effie is hurt. We need to rest.”


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