Chapter 115:


    Grayson stared at his daughter. He looked at the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes. It was the same look Isolde wore when she was deep in her work. The same look he recognized in the mirror when he was closing a deal.


    For the first time in five years, he truly saw her.


    “She’s right,” Grayson murmured.


    “What?” Belle shrieked.


    “Kaiden pushed her,” Grayson said. He nced at the stylists standing in the corner, acutely aware of the audience. A scene here would leak to the press within minutes. He had to control the narrative. “Kaiden, apologize.”


    “No!” Kaiden ran to Belle and buried his face in her side. “Mommy! He’s being mean!”


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    Mommy.


    The word hung in the air.


    Isolde looked at Grayson. “You let him call her that?”


    Grayson looked away, his jaw tight. “It’s…plicated.”


    “We’re leaving,” Isolde said. “We’ll meet you at the g. I’m not getting dressed in this zoo.”


    She took Effie’s hand. As they walked to the elevator, Effie looked up at her.


    “Did I do good, Mommy?”


    Isolde squeezed her hand. “You were perfect.”


    “We need a dress,” Isolde said as they stepped onto Fifth Avenue.


    “But Daddy sent the stylist,” Effie said.


    “Daddy has bad taste,” Isolde replied.


    They walked into Bergdorf Goodman. The air conditioning was a relief. The scent of expensive perfume and new leather settled Isolde’s nerves.


    “Mrs. Lancaster!” Pierre, a personal shopper who knew her well, rushed over. “We have the new Chanel collection ready for you. Lots of pastels. Very demure.”


    “No pastels, Pierre,” Isolde said.


    For a fleeting moment she considered the white dress she had originally nned — a symbol of surrender, of cold malice dressed as innocence. But after the scene at the Penthouse, after hearing a child call another woman Mommy, subtlety felt like a concession. She didn’t want to y chess. She wanted to burn the board.


    “I need armor.”


    “Armor?”


    “Something ck. Something sharp. Something that says ‘funeral for a marriage.''”


    Pierre’s eyes lit up. “Right this way.”


    He led them to a private suite. Isolde moved along the racks, her hand pausing on a deep midnight blue gown — elegant, understated.


    “That one,” she said.


    Just as Pierre reached for it, another hand closed around the hanger.


    “I saw it first.”


    Belle.


    Of course.


    She was standing there in her street clothes, slightly breathless. She must have followed them.


    “Belle,” Isolde sighed. “Are you stalking me?”


    “Grayson told me toe pick something up,” Belle said. She clutched the dress against herself. “This matches my eyes.”


    “It matches your bruises,” Isolde said dryly.


    “Excuse me?”


    “From the stress,” Isolde said, smiling pleasantly. “You look tired, Belle. Being a fake executive is exhausting, isn’t it?”


    Belle’s knuckles went white on the hanger. “I’m taking this dress. Put it on Mr. Lancaster’s ount.”


    Pierre nced at Isolde, visibly ufortable. “Mrs. Lancaster had it first…”


    “Let her have it,” Isolde said, with a dismissive wave. “Blue is the color of sadness. It suits her.”


    Belle smirked and swept into a fitting room.


    Isolde turned to Effie. “What do you think?”


    Effie pointed to a dress disyed on a mannequin in the corner.


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