Chapter 122:


    “Here,” she said, pressing a brass key into Isolde’s palm. “The electronic system for this wing is firewalled from the main housework. Grayson’s codes won’t work here. This key operates a secondary, purely mechanical deadbolt — no one has a copy of this specific key except the head of security, and he’s at the gate.”


    Isolde took it. The metal was cold.


    Beatrice lingered in the doorway a moment. “You did well tonight,” she said quietly. “Alistair respects strength. Even when it destroys him.”


    “I didn’t do it for his respect,” Isolde said. “I did it for my daughter.”


    Beatrice looked at Effie, then gave a single, quiet nod. “Sleep well, Isolde.”


    Isolde closed the door. She turned the deadbolt. Then she dragged a heavy armchair in front of it.


    Outside, the storm raged, battering the windows with relentless fury. But inside, the silence was profound — thick and still, filled with the ghosts of the marriage she had just publicly buried.


    The digital clock on the bedside table blinked 2:00 AM.


    Effie was asleep in the center of the massive king-sized bed, curled into a tight ball. She had taken a motion sickness pill earlier, and it had knocked her outpletely.


    Isolde could not sleep.


    She sat in the wingback chair by the window, watching the lightning illuminate the flooded grounds below. In her right hand she held a heavy, ornate letter opener she had slipped from a side table in the main hall as they walked past. It was not a weapon of war, but its silver point was sharp enough. Her left arm ached with a dull, persistent throb — a quiet reminder of her vulnerability.


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    Across the estate, in the main library, the storm was entirely internal.


    Grayson sat in his father’s leather chair, the bottle of Macan 25 nearly empty beside him. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the firece. Daron McKnight paced the rug with a drink in hand, wearing a groove into the Persian wool.


    “You have to admit, she yed you,” Daron said, his voice grating. “Ten billion dors, Gray. She walked out of here with the GDP of a small country in her pocket.”


    Grayson stared at the amber liquid in his ss. “She looked… different.”


    “She looked like a bitch,” Daron spat. “She humiliated you. And that contract — she stole it. She used your resources, yourbs.”


    “No,” Grayson murmured. “She used her brain. I just… I never looked at her work. I never looked.”


    He closed his eyes. The image of Isolde in that ck velvet dress burned behind his eyelids. She was terrifying. She was magnificent. She was his wife.


    “She’s bluffing about the divorce,” Daron said, pouring himself more scotch. “She’s doing this to drive up the settlement. She wants you to chase her. Women like that — they need to be conquered.”


    Grayson stood. The room tilted. He steadied himself against the desk.


    “Conquered,” he repeated. The word tasted like ash and iron.


    “Go talk to her,” Daron goaded. “She’s in the West Wing. Trapped. She can’t run tonight.”


    Grayson looked at the door. The alcohol had stripped away his logic, leaving only a raw, possessive instinct. She was in his house. She was wearing his name.


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