Chapter 107:


    She signed her name. The letters came out jagged, sharp, and angry.


    “This is it,” Stone said. “Once I file this, there is no going back. It’s war.”


    “It was war the moment he stepped over me,” Isolde said.


    She walked out of the office. And was waiting by the car.


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    “Nelson is expecting us,” And said. “But he has a condition.”


    “What condition?”


    “He wants to announce the partnership at a specific venue,” And said. “This weekend.”


    “Where?”


    “Alistair Lancaster’s eightieth birthday party.”


    Isolde went still. Alistair. Grayson’s father. The patriarch. The only man Grayson had ever truly feared. The party would be held at the Hamptons estate, and every power yer in New York would be there.


    “He wants me to walk into the lion’s den,” Isolde said.


    “He wants you to walk in there, with your cast, and announce that you — Sophia — have signed with Orbital. He wants you to humiliate Grayson in front of his father.”


    Isolde looked down at her bandaged arm. She felt the phantom pain pulsing beneath the ster.


    She thought of Belle wearing her dress. She thought of Grayson stepping over her bleeding body without breaking stride.


    A cold smile touched her lips.


    “Okay,” Isolde said. “I’ll go. And I’m going to wear white.”


    “White?”


    “Yes,” Isolde said. “The color of surrender. I want him to think I’ming to beg for forgiveness — right before I burn his kingdom to the ground.”


    Isolde woke to a throbbing, rhythmic pain that radiated from her left wrist all the way to her shoulder. It wasn’t merely an ache — it was a sharp, biting sensation, like teeth still working at bone.


    She gasped, eyes flying open in the dim light of the Tribeca apartment. She tried to push herself upright, but her left arm was dead weight, encased in a sleek ckposite brace. The attempt sent a jolt of agony through her nervous system so intense that ck spots bloomed across her vision.


    “Mommy?”


    The whisper came from the doorway.


    Isolde turned her head. Effie stood there in her oversized pajamas, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of worry. She looked too small. Too old for her age.


    “I’m okay, baby,” Isolde said, her voice raspy. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bracing herself with her right hand. “Just thirsty.”


    Effie didn’t wait. She padded to the nightstand, lifted the heavy ss carafe with both hands, and poured water into a ss with solemn, careful focus. It broke Isolde’s heart. A five-year-old shouldn’t know how to nurse her mother.


    Isolde took the ss. The water was cool, washing away the metallic taste of painkillers and fear.


    The inte buzzed.


    Isolde went still. It was seven in the morning.


    She walked to the living room, Effie trailing behind her like a shadow. The lobby camera showed her mother, Ellyn Briggs, standing at the entrance looking frantic — her usually immacte hair windblown, her Hermès bag clutched against her chest like a shield.


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