Chapter 124:


    Grayson ignored her. He kicked the door shut behind him, sealing them in. The air instantly felt suffocating, dense with the smell of expensive scotch and rain.


    “Why are you so far away?” he murmured, moving toward her with uncoordinated steps. “You look incredible tonight. That dress…” He reached out a hand, his fingers grasping at the air between them.


    Isolde stepped back, keeping the letter opener hidden in the folds of her skirt. She needed him close enough to be threatened, but not close enough to grab her.


    “You’re drunk, Grayson. You don’t know what you’re doing.”


    “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he whispered. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes ssy and unfocused. He tilted his head, regarding her with a strange, soft expression that made Isolde’s skin crawl. “I missed you. I know I messed up. But we can fix it — you and me.”


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    He lunged forward, arms reaching for her waist.


    Isolde sidestepped, but he was heavy. He caught her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her neck with a slow, deep inhale.


    “You smell so good,” he mumbled against her skin. “I hate you… Belle.”


    The name hung in the air, suspended in the silence between thunderps.


    Isolde went rigid.


    It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a surprise. It was the pathetic, predictable truth rising to the surface from the bottom of a whiskey bottle. This was not the drunken confession of a man who missed his lover — it was the resentful snarl of a king who feared the queen who had just checkmated him. The name was not a slip of the tongue. It was an usation.


    A cold, white rity settled in Isolde’s chest. Not rage. rity. It wasn’t heartbreak, either — heartbreak required a heart, and hers had turned to stone hours ago. What she felt was pure, unadulterated revulsion.


    She didn’t merely push him. She shoved him with every ounce of strength in her body.


    Grayson stumbled backward, his heel catching on the rug. He crashed into the heavy oak dresser, and a crystal water pitcher toppled from its surface and shattered on the floor.


    “What the hell—” Grayson shook his head, looking up.


    He froze.


    The tip of the silver letter opener was an inch from his nose.


    Isolde held it with a perfectly steady hand. Her eyes were dark voids.


    “Look at me,” she hissed. “Look at me and tell me who I am.”


    Grayson blinked, the fog clearing slightly. He took in the ck dress. The brace. The de. “Isolde?”


    “Yes,” she said. “Isolde. The woman whose design you stole. The woman whose daughter you ignored. The woman you just called by a name you have no right to speak.”


    Grayson’s face drained of color. “I didn’t — I wouldn’t—”


    “You did,” Isolde said. She stepped forward, the de unwavering. “And that is why you are going to turn around, walk out that door, and never touch me again.”


    “Isolde, put that down. You’re being dramatic.”


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