Chapter 80:


    “I don’t care!” Kaiden screamed. The audio cracked with the volume. “Belle said you’re just having a tantrum! She said you’re trying to get attention! Come back and make me dinner! Now!”


    Isolde felt a cold snap in her chest. Tantrum. That was Grayson’s word. Belle’s word. And now it lived in the mouth of a six-year-old.


    “No,” Isolde said.


    Kaiden stopped screaming, stunned. “What?”


    “I said no. Ask your father to make you dinner. Or Belle. I am not your chef.”


    She didn’t wait for the meltdown. She didn’t wait for the tears that used to manipte her into submission. She tapped the red button. The screen went ck.


    Effie turned her head slowly. Her eyes were wide, filled with a terrified awe. “Will… will he be mad?”


    Isolde sat beside her and pulled her into a gentle hug, mindful of the bandaged arm. “It doesn’t matter if he’s mad, baby. His anger is not our problem anymore.”


    Effie rested her head against Isolde’s chest. “Okay.”


    “You know what?” Isolde said, standing and smoothing her skirt. “We need food. Real food. Not room service.”


    “Supermarket?” Effie asked.


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    “Whole Foods,” Isolde dered. “Let’s go.”


    The Whole Foods in Tribeca was a cathedral of organic consumerism — perfectly stacked pyramids of apples, walls of artisanal cheese, and the warm scent of ground coffee beans. It was ordinary. It was life.


    Isolde ced Effie in the cart, careful of her arm, and pushed them through the produce section, letting the vibrant colors wash away the gray of the hotel suite.


    “Strawberries,” Isolde said, spotting a disy of massive, ruby-red berries. “Organic. Your favorite.” She picked up a stic mshell and handed it to Effie.


    Effie held the box with her good hand. She stared at the price sticker. $8.99.


    Her small face crumpled. She reached out and ced the strawberries back on the shelf.


    “Mommy,” she whispered, ncing around as thoughmitting a crime. “Too expensive.”


    Isolde’s hands tightened on the cart handle. “What?”


    “Daddy stopped the cards,” Effie said, her voice trembling. “We have to save money. I can eat the apples. The ones in the bag are cheaper.”


    The air left Isolde’s lungs as though she had been struck.


    Five years old.


    Her daughter was five years old, and she was calcting unit prices because her father had weaponized poverty against them. Grayson had cut off the money not simply to punish Isolde, but to frighten Effie. To make a child feel the full weight of survival.


    Isolde crouched down right there in the aisle. She took Effie’s face in both hands.


    “Look at me,” Isolde said, her voice fierce and gentle at once. “Effie, look at me.”


    Effie blinked. A tear slipped free.


    “Daddy stopped his cards,” Isolde said. “But Mommy has a job now. A big job. I make my own money. Lots of it.”


    Effie sniffled. “More than Daddy?”


    “Enough to buy this whole store if we wanted to.” Isolde stood. “We are not poor. We are not saving money. Not on food. Not on you.”


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