Chapter 98:


    Inside the elevator, And was fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a small chocte bar he kept for emergencies and broke off a piece.


    “Isolde,” he whispered. “Eat. Just a little.”


    He pressed the chocte to her lips.


    Isolde swallowed weakly. The sugar reached her system. Her eyes fluttered open.


    “Did they see?” she whispered, her voice a rasp.


    “It doesn’t matter,” And said, holding her tighter. “I’ve got you.”


    “He thought I was faking,” she murmured. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “He always thinks I’m faking.”


    “He’s a fool,” And said. “And he’s going to pay for every second of this.”


    Isolde was back at her desk the next morning at eight o’clock. And had wanted her to stay home, but she refused. Work was the only thing she could control.


    She was cutting through a neutral office park in Midtown — a sharedmercial space where various techpanies held meetings — on her way to a crosspany symposium on aerospace materials. Neutral ground, but not safe ground.


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    A sh of light caught her eye.


    Near arge abstract sculpture in the center of the za, a camera crew was setting up. Standing in the middle of the lights was Belle.


    Belle was giving an interview to TechCrunch. She was posed with one hand on her hip, smiling brilliantly.


    She was wearing a dress.


    Isolde stopped. Her breath caught.


    It was a vintage emerald green velvet dress. Custom made in Mn. Isolde had bought it for her fifth wedding anniversary. She had never worn it — because Grayson hadn’te home that night.


    A memory, sharp and unwanted, cut through her: the feel of velvet under her fingers in the boutique, the quiet hope she’d carried, the slow heartbreak of spending the evening alone with the dress hanging in its sheath like a ghost. Now that ghost was being worn by the woman who had haunted her marriage.


    It had been hanging in the back of the closet in the Penthouse.


    Belle was wearing her anniversary dress.


    Isolde walked toward her. She didn’t run. She moved with the steady, terrifying calm of a predator.


    Belle saw hering and smirked, turning slightly to show the dress off to the camera.


    “And here at SkyLine,” Belle was saying into the microphone, “we believe in sustainable fashion. Vintage is the new modern.”


    “That’s not vintage,” Isolde said, stepping into the frame. “That’s stolen property.”


    The interviewer looked confused. “Cut. Sorry — who is this?”


    “Isolde,” Belle said, her smile tightening. “So nice of you to stop by. I was just telling them how I repurposed this old thing. It was gathering dust.”


    Isolde looked Belle up and down. Not at her face. At her waist.


    “You know,” Isolde said, loud enough for the crew to hear, “I remember the fitting for that dress. The tailor in Mn was very specific about it. Twenty-four-inch waist. No stretch. Silk lining.”


    Belle shifted ufortably. “It fits perfectly.”


    “Does it?” Isolde pointed to the side seam, just under Belle’s arm.


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