Chapter 95:


    Isolde let out a short, dryugh. “You already did that, Grayson. Remember? Whole Foods? You tried to starve us out.”


    Silence on the line. He had forgotten. Or he had simply assumed she was still suffering.


    “I don’t need your cards,” Isolde said, her grip on the phone tightening. “And I am not your nanny. Take him to a doctor, or tell his biological mother to stop drinking champagne and go hold him. Do not call me again.”


    She ended the call.


    Her thumb hovered over the block button. She didn’t press it — not yet. She needed the record of his harassment for Stone.


    “Everything okay?” And asked.


    ??????o????e???? ???????о???????.с???? ??o ????ur f????еn????


    “Grayson,” Isolde said, dropping the phone back into her bag. “He thinks he can still summon me.”


    “And?”


    Isolde lifted a ss of wine from a passing waiter’s tray and held it up to the light, the red liquid swirling slowly.


    “And he’s realizing the remote control is broken.”


    She clinked her ss against And’s soda.


    “To freedom.”


    The next morning, Isolde stood in line at a bustling Blue Bottle Coffee near Wall Street, checking her watch. She had a meeting with Arthur Stone in twenty minutes to finalize the filing for the emergency asset freeze.


    She wore a sharp navy zer and matching trousers, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked like a woman who billed by the hour.


    “Two almond milkttes, extra hot,” a voice ordered at the counter.


    Isolde went still. The voice was familiar. Too familiar.


    She looked up. Belle was at the register, wearing oversized sunsses indoors and a white sundress that looked far too youthful for the financial district. Grayson stood beside her, typing furiously on his phone, looking agitated.


    They must have juste from a meeting with their ownwyers.


    Belle turned and saw Isolde. A slow, malicious smile spread across her face. She tapped Grayson’s arm.


    “Look, Gray,” Belle said, loudly enough to carry. “It’s the exile.”


    Grayson looked up. His eyes narrowed. He looked tired, his tie slightly askew — the chaos of the Penthouse was wearing on him.


    “Isolde,” Grayson said, his tone clipped. “Stalking us?”


    “I have a meeting,” Isolde said, stepping forward to collect her ck coffee from the counter. “Unlike you, I don’t have time to loiter.”


    She turned to leave, but Belle stepped into her path, blocking the narrow aisle between the tables.


    “I like the suit,” Belle said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Very corporate drone. Is that what And has you doing? Filing paperwork?”


    Isolde didn’t back down. She stepped closer, moving into Belle’s personal space.


    And then it hit her.


    A scent.


    Not just the coffee. Something specific — musky, warm. Sandalwood and cedar. Grayson’s custom blend from London. But it wasn’ting from Grayson. It wasing from Belle. Clinging to her hair, soaked into the fabric of her dress. It was the smell of intimacy. Of a long embrace, or a shared bed.


    A wave of nausea moved through Isolde’s stomach. Not jealousy. Something more visceral — a biological revulsion. The smell of contamination.


    .


    .


    .