Chapter 117:


    Isolde turned something over in her mind. Five years ago — the night she told Grayson she was pregnant. He hade homete, smelling of antiseptic. He said he had donated blood. Butter she noticed a bandage on his ribs. He said he had scratched himself.


    Yearster, she discovered the tattoo. Coordinates. 40.7577 N, 73.9857 W. Times Square. He imed it was where SkyLine’s first billboard had gone up — the symbol of his empire.


    Isolde looked at the smudge on Belle’s shoulder, then at Grayson. His own tattoo had softened and blurred at the edges over the years. The ink beneath Belle’s concealer appeared too dark, the lines too sharp.


    “Let me help you fix that,” Isolde said, reaching out.


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    “Don’t touch me!” Belle shrieked, backing away.


    “Why so jumpy?” Isolde smiled coldly. “Unless it isn’t a birthmark.”


    Grayson stepped between them. “Isolde, stop it. Leave her alone.”


    “You’re protecting her,” Isolde whispered. “Why?”


    She looked at Grayson’s ribs, hidden beneath his suit. Then back at Belle’s shoulder.


    The realization hit her like a physical blow.


    “They match,” Isolde said. Her voice was barely audible.


    Grayson went pale.


    “What matches?” Pierre asked, still holding his pincushion.


    “The tattoos,” Isolde said, her eyes locking onto Grayson’s. “You have matching tattoos.”


    The silence in the VIP suite was deafening.


    Isolde moved faster than anyone expected. She sidestepped Grayson and grabbed the strap of Belle’s dress.


    “Isolde, no!” Grayson lunged.


    Toote. Isolde yanked the strap down.


    There it was.


    Inked in ck, stark against Belle’s skin.


    40.7577 N, 73.9857 W.


    The exact same font. The exact same size.


    Isolde felt the floor tilt beneath her.


    “When?” she asked. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Hollow.


    Belle pulled her strap back up, her face flushed with defiance. “College. We got them in college.”


    “Liar,” Isolde said. She looked at the ink. It wasn’t faded. “The lines are too crisp. That ink isn’t ten years old. Four years? Five?”


    “It was a solidarity thing,” Grayson stammered. “When SkyLine went public.”


    “SkyLine went public the month Effie was born,” Isolde said.


    She looked at Grayson. “I was inbor for twenty hours. You werete. You said you were in a meeting.”


    Grayson looked at the floor.


    “You were getting tattooed with her,” Isolde said. “While I was pushing your daughter into the world, you were branding yourself with your mistress.”


    “It’s tonic!” Belle cried. “We are soulmates! It transcends the physical—”


    “Shut up,” Isolde said. She didn’t shout. She didn’t raise her voice at all. She simply spoke with the absolute, crushing weight of truth. “tonic soulmates don’t hide it. tonic soulmates don’t lie for five years.”


    She turned back to Grayson. She searched herself for anger. For hurt.


    There was nothing. Only disgust. The specific, detached revulsion of finding something rotten in something she had once loved.


    “You are small,” Isolde said to him. “You are so incredibly small.”


    “Isolde, please.” Grayson reached for her. “It didn’t mean anything.”


    “It meant everything,” Isolde said. “It meant that every time you took off your shirt, you wereughing at me. Every time you held Effie, you were lying.”


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