Chapter 86:


    Isolde looked at the vanity. It was unrecognizable. Her organized trays were gone, reced by a chaotic sprawl of Belle’s makeup, hairspray cans, and cheap jewelry.


    “Oh, that old thing?” Belleughed. “That dusty book? I cleared out all the junk to make room for my things. Gray said this is my room now. So I made space.”


    “Junk?” Isolde stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “That was my life’s work. Where is it?”


    “I don’t know,” Belle shrugged. “Maybe I threw it out. Maybe the cleaner took it. Or maybe…” She paused, her eyes glinting with malice. “Maybe I used it for kindling. Just like you torched your marriage.”


    Isolde saw red.


    She spotted something in the wastebasket near the vanity. Shredded paper — thick, legal bond paper. She recognized the letterhead.


    It was the supplemental asset division agreement she had sent over the previous week. The one demanding a fifty percent stake in SkyLine’s new intellectual property. Shredded. Unsigned.


    “He didn’t sign,” Isolde said, the realization settling like ice.


    “Of course not,” Belle gloated. “He’s not going to give you a cent. He’s going to starve you out until youe crawling back to beg. And when you do, maybe I’ll let you be the nanny.”


    ??oр??l??r ????о??????s оn ??a????ov??l?.??????


    Isolde looked at the woman in her robe. The woman who had poisoned her marriage, hurt her daughter, and now desecrated her history.


    Isolde moved.


    Her eyesnded on a pair of antique silver letter openers on the desk — heavy, ornate.


    “Hey!” Belle shrieked, sensing the shift in the air.


    Isolde picked one up. The cool weight of the metal was grounding. With a flick of her wrist, she hooked the sharp tip under the silkpel of the robe and yanked. Hard.


    “You’re crazy!” Belle scrambled back against the vanity, clutching the torn silk.


    “It’s mine,” Isolde said. “And you’ve contaminated it.”


    She used the tip of the letter opener to push the robe off the bed and onto the floor, as though both were now toxic.


    “Actually,” Isolde said, wiping her hands on her trousers as if she had touched something foul. “Keep it. It smells like you now. Cheap.”


    She turned to the vanity and swept Belle’s bottles off the surface with one clean motion. ss shattered across the floor. Perfume pooled between the shards.


    “You can’t do this!” Belle screamed.


    “Tell Grayson I was here,” Isolde said, stepping over the broken ss. “Tell him he missed his chance to sign the easy way. Now we do it the hard way.”


    She hadn’t found her thesis. But she had found something else.


    As she walked out of the apartment, leaving Belle screaming in the wreckage of the bedroom, a cold rity settled over her.


    No more negotiations. No more quiet exits.


    It was time for war.


    Isolde sat in her car, her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She took a slow breath, drawing in the scent of old leather and freedom.


    She picked up her phone and dialed.


    .


    .


    .