Chapter 87:


    “And,” she said the moment he answered. “I need awyer. Not a family friend. Not a mediator. I need a shark. Someone who eats Lancasters for lunch.”


    And didn’t hesitate. “I know a guy. Arthur Stone. He’s expensive, he’s mean, and he’s had a grudge against Grayson’s father since a golf course incident in the nies. I’ll text you the address.”


    Two hourster, Isolde sat in a corner office in Midtown. The view was of brick walls and fire escapes — a workingwyer’s office, not a showman’s.


    Arthur Stone was a small man with a bald head and spectacles that magnified his eyes, making him look like a predatory owl. He listened to Isolde’s ount without interrupting, tapping a gold pen steadily against his legal pad.


    “He shredded the papers,” Stone repeated, studying the photograph Isolde had taken of the wastebasket. “And the mistress is living in the marital home?”


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    “Yes.”


    “And the child? The burn?”


    “Documented. Emergency room records. Photos.”


    Stone smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was a smile full of teeth.


    “Ms. Carson,” he said, using her maiden name. “Adultery is difficult to leverage as a primary cause for financial damages in New York these days, but ‘Cruel and Inhuman Treatment’? That we have in abundance. And the child endangerment — that’s the nuclear button.”


    “I want full custody,” Isolde said. “And I want my dissertation back. It’s listed as missing property.”


    “We’ll add it to the discovery,” Stone said. “If she sold it, she pays. If she lost it, she pays double.”


    Isolde’s phone rang. It was Grayson’s executive assistant — a visibly frightened young woman named Sarah.


    Isolde put it on speaker.


    “Mrs. Lancaster?” Sarah’s voice trembled. “Mr. Lancaster asked me to convey a message. He says… he says tomorrow is The Institute G. He demands you attend. On his arm.”


    Isolde let out a dry, humorlessugh. “He’s aware I now work for his directpetitor?”


    “He said…” Sarah hesitated. “He said if you don’t appear, he will use his position on the board of governors at Lenox Hill to block Dr. Alistair Finch from treating Effie. He knows he’s the only pediatric burn specialist you trust.”


    The room went cold.


    Stone reached across the desk. “Give me the phone.”


    Isolde handed it over.


    “This is Arthur Stone, Attorney at Law,” he said, his voice sharp and measured. “You tell your employer that extortion is a felony. Tell him that if he makes a single phone call to interfere with that child’s medical care, I will have a judge sign an emergency restraining order so fast his head will spin. And I will personally sue him for intentional infliction of emotional distress. Do you understand?”


    A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I will tell him.”


    “Good. Hang up.”


    Stone handed the phone back. “He’s desperate. He needs to show the world he can still control you. SkyLine’s stock is wobbly.”


    “I’m not going,” Isolde said.


    “Oh, you are going,” Stone corrected her. “But not as his prop. You’re going to go, and you’re going to shine so bright you burn his retinas.”


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