Chapter 123:


    “I’m going to ask her,” Grayson slurred. “I’m going to ask her why.”


    He stumbled out of the library.


    Belle was waiting in the hallway, wrapped in a nket. She looked small and pathetic.


    “Gray?” she whispered. “Are youing to bed?”


    Grayson looked at her — really looked at her. The smudged makeup. The desperate eyes. The tattoo on her shoulder that suddenly felt like a brand of shame.


    “Get out of my way,” he growled.


    “But Gray—”


    “I said move!” He pushed past her, nearly knocking her into the wall.


    He walked down the long corridor toward the West Wing. Lightning shed through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.


    He reached the door. He tried the handle. Locked.


    “Isolde,” he said, leaning his forehead against the wood. “Open the door.”


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    Inside, Isolde went perfectly still. She tightened her grip on the letter opener. Her phoney on the nightstand, its microphone discreetly activated and recording.


    “Go away, Grayson,” she said, her voice low and steady.


    “I need to talk to you.” He rattled the handle violently. “Open it. It’s my house.”


    “Not this room,” Isolde said. “Not tonight.”


    “You’re my wife,” Grayson shouted, striking the door with his fist. “Stop locking me out! Stop hiding!”


    “I’m not hiding,” Isolde replied, her voice dangerously calm. “I’m documenting your behavior for the police.”


    Grayson let out a harsh, brokenugh. He fumbled in his pocket. His master key card was useless against the firewalled system, exactly as Beatrice had said. He pulled out his phone and pressed the contact for the head of security. After a brief, angry exchange in which he threatened the man’s job, a text arrived with an override code.


    Isolde heard the faint beep of the electronic lock disengaging.


    Cold, sharp panic pierced her chest. She rose from the chair and positioned herself between the door and the bed where Effie slept.


    Grayson tried the handle again. It turned — but the door didn’t open. It struck something solid. The mechanical deadbolt.


    “What the hell?” she heard him mutter.


    A heavy thud shook the door. He was kicking it. Another blownded, this one splintering the wood around the lock. The door pushed open a few inches before it met the armchair Isolde had dragged in front of it.


    “Isolde…” Grayson’s voice drifted through the crack, thick with whiskey and entitlement.


    Isolde raised the letter opener.


    The door groaned as Grayson threw his weight against it, shoving the armchair across the rug with a screeching scrape that vanished beneath a p of thunder.


    He stumbled into the room, blinking in the dim light.


    Isolde stood ten feet away. Her posture was perfect, her breathing controlled. The silver letter opener in her right hand caught a sh of lightning from the window.


    Grayson didn’t see the weapon. He only saw her silhouette.


    He took a step forward, swaying. “There you are.”


    “Get out,” Isolde said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it had the cutting edge of a diamond.


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