Chapter 121:


    “There isn’t, ma’am. Not until the storm breaks and they can clear the tree. It could be morning.”


    Effie let out a small, terrified sob. “Mommy, I want to go home.”


    Isolde knelt, ignoring the damp stone soaking into her dress, and cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “I know, baby. I know.”


    The sharp click of heels on stone made her look up.


    Beatrice Lancaster stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thick wool shawl, her expression grim. She did not look like a woman who had just watched her family’s legacy dismantled in public. She looked like a general surveying a battlefield.


    “Don’t be a fool, Isolde,” Beatrice said, her voice cutting cleanly through the wind. “Driving in this is suicide. You have a child to think of.”


    Isolde rose, stepping in front of Effie. “I’d rather sleep in the car.”


    “And let Effie freeze?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “The West Wing is empty. It has its own heating system, separate from the main house. You won’t see Grayson. You won’t see anyone.”


    Isolde looked at the rain, then at her daughter’s blue lips. Maternal instinct overrode the bile rising in her throat.


    “I need a key,” Isolde said. “A physical key. For the inside of the door.”


    Beatrice nodded once. “I’ll get it from the housekeeper.”


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    They had to pass through the edge of the main hall to reach the West Wing corridor. The party had disintegrated entirely. The power flickered on generator backup, and waiters moved through the dimness with shlights.


    Grayson was standing at the bottom of the grand staircase. His tie was loosened, and a ss of amber liquid dangled from his hand. He looked like a man who had been punched squarely in the gut and was still deciding what to do about it.


    He saw them.


    His eyes locked onto Isolde — not with anger, but with a murky, drunken confusion. He took a step forward, swaying slightly.


    “Isolde…”


    She didn’t break stride. She kept her gaze fixed on the corridor ahead, her hand mped firmly on Effie’s shoulder, and walked past him as though he were a piece of furniture.


    From the shadows near the restrooms, Belle emerged. Her mascara had run in dark rivulets down her cheeks, giving her the look of a sad, melted doll. She saw Grayson staring after Isolde, and her face twisted.


    “Gray,” Belle whined, reaching for his arm. “I’m cold. The power is out in the powder room.”


    Grayson didn’t look at her. He shook her hand from his sleeve as though brushing off an insect.


    “Go find a room, Belle,” he snapped, his voice slurring. “Leave me alone.”


    Belle recoiled, her mouth falling open. She stood there, humiliated, watching him watch his ex-wife walk away.


    Beatrice led Isolde and Effie down the long, drafty corridor to the West Wing and opened a heavy wooden door at the far end of the hall.


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