Chapter 118:


    She turned to Pierre. “I’m taking the ck dress. Charge it to his card.” She lifted the garment bag from the rack. “Consider it a tattoo removal fee.”


    “Effie, let’s go.”


    Effie took her hand without a word. They walked out of the suite.


    Grayson didn’t follow. He couldn’t. He stood pinned to the spot by the full weight of his own shame.


    Outside, the rain had stopped. The air was clean.


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    Isolde took a slow, deep breath. She pulled out her burner phone and typed.


    He broke the deal. Belle is here. The brooch is forfeit. Execute contingency n. Burn it all down.


    She sent it to And and slipped the phone into her pocket.


    Then she straightened her spine, took Effie’s hand, and walked.


    The Lancaster Estate in the Hamptons was a sprawling monstrosity of stone and ivy, lit up like anding strip.


    As her hired town car approached the gates, Isolde’s burner phone buzzed. A text from And.


    Contingency sessful. Roth legal filed an emergency injunction, voiding the consignment on grounds of duress. My security team has the package. It’s waiting for you at the apartment.


    Relief washed through her, cold and sharp. The brooch was safe. The final shackle was broken.


    The car pulled up to the red carpet. Ahead of them, Grayson’s limousine was unloading.


    Grayson stepped out. He looked rattled. He reached back into the car, and Belle emerged in the blue dress, clinging to his arm like a barnacle.


    The shbulbs erupted.


    “Mr. Lancaster! Is this the new Mrs. Lancaster?”


    “Are the rumors true?”


    Grayson tried to pull away, but Belle held fast, beaming her practiced, stic smile. She was loving every second of it. This was her moment.


    Isolde waited until they were halfway down the carpet.


    “Now,” she told the driver.


    She opened her own door and stepped out.


    The ck velvet dress absorbed the shbulbs. Her ck brace was stark against it. Her hair was slicked back, severe. She wore no jewelry except for a pair of diamond studs.


    She looked like a widow. A beautiful, dangerous widow.


    The photographers swung their lenses.


    “Isolde! Isolde, over here!”


    She walked with Effie. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave.


    A reporter thrust a microphone toward her face. “Mrs. Lancaster! Are you and Grayson separating?”


    Isolde stopped. She looked directly into the camera.


    “I am not Mrs. Lancaster,” she said, her voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “I am Ms. Carson. And yes, the divorce is pending.”


    Gasps rippled through the gathered press.


    Grayson turned at the top of the stairs. He looked furious.


    Isolde walked past him without a nce.


    Inside, the ballroom was suffocatingly opulent — crystal chandeliers, mountains of shrimp, rivers of champagne.


    The majordomo, a man named Higgins who had known Isolde for years, looked apologetic as she approached.


    “Madam… I’m afraid…” He held the seating chart at his side.


    “What is it, Higgins?”


    “Mr. Lancaster — the elder Mr. Lancaster — insisted.” He extended the chart. “You are at Table 18.”


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