Chapter 81:


    She grabbed the strawberries. Then she grabbed another box. She marched to the meat counter and ordered two prime ribeyes. She added a bag of imported truffle chips, a box of artisanal choctes, and a jar of expensive manuka honey.


    She filled the cart until it was a mountain of indulgence.


    At the checkout, the cashier scanned item after item. The total climbed. Effie watched the screen, her lips moving silently.


    “$340.50,” she whispered to herself.


    Isolde heard her. “That’s right, smart girl.”


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    She pulled out her phone, opened her digital wallet, and selected a matte-ck personal card — sleek and unmarked save for a single silver stylized S in the corner. It was linked to a private ount she had maintained for years under her pseudonym. A financial ghost Grayson could never touch.


    Beep.


    “Approved,” the cashier said cheerfully. “Receipt in the bag?”


    “Yes, please.”


    Isolde handed the receipt to Effie. “See? Magic.”


    Effie looked at the paper, then up at her mother. A slow, tentative smile spread across her face. “Mommy, your card works.”


    “Mommy is free,” Isolde corrected, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s go home and have a feast.”


    Back at the hotel, the kitchte was small but functional. Isolde seared the steaks and made a pot of creamy mac and cheese from scratch — the kind Kaiden had demanded, but this time made for the person who deserved it.


    They ate on the sofa, watching cartoons. There was no tension. No Seraphina making snidements about calories. No Grayson checking his watch. No Belle pretending to be allergic to gluten just to demand a second meal from the kitchen.


    Effie ate until her chin was shiny with cheese sauce. For the first time in days, her shoulders dropped. She looked like a child, not a refugee.


    Isolde watched her, a fierce protectiveness burning low and steady in her chest. She would burn the world down to keep this peace.


    Later, after Effie had fallen asleep surrounded by pillows, Isolde sat at the small desk with herptop open. The hotel wasfortable, but it wasn’t a home. They needed roots.


    Her email pinged.


    Sender: And Roth Subject: Sanctuary


    Isolde,


    I know you’re at the Aka. It’s fine for a week, but you need a fortress. I have a property in Tribeca. High security. The doorman knows how to keep out unwanted ex-husbands. Ten-minute walk to Orbital HQ. Link attached. It’s vacant. It’s yours if you want it.


    — A


    Isolde clicked the link. The apartment was stunning — minimalist, light-filled, and secure.


    She typed back: I’ll take it. When can I see it?


    She closed theptop and looked out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, in a cold and empty penthouse, Grayson was probably realizing that his hunger strike tactics hadn’t worked.


    She smiled. He had no idea what wasing.


    The next morning, the sun was bright and unforgiving. Isolde decided her arsenal needed an upgrade. The clothes in her suitcase were tactical — remnants of her first break from the Lancaster world, suitable for boardrooms andbs. But for the war toe, she needed armor.


    “We are going shopping,” Isolde announced.


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