Chapter 127:


    “She has everything!” Belle’s voice rose sharply. “She has the contract, the fame — all I have is you. And that brooch makes me feel like I belong here. Like I won.”


    She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Gray. Don’t take it from me. Let me keep it just a little while longer. No one has to know.”


    Grayson looked at the desperation on her face and felt a wave of pure exhaustion wash over him. He just wanted the crying to stop. He just wanted someone to look at him with adoration instead of contempt. The legal demand felt abstract and distant; Belle’s tears were immediate and real.


    “Fine,” Grayson sighed, making a fatal decision. “Keep it in the room. Do not wear it outside.” He would tell his grandfather it was in a bank vault.


    Belle gasped. A triumphant smile broke through her tears. “Oh, Gray — it’s perfect!”


    She threw her arms around his neck. “I knew you loved me more than her. I knew it.”


    Grayson held her, but his eyes were open, fixed on the empty hallway where Isolde had walked away. A sick knot tightened in his stomach. He already knew he had just made a mistake. A massive one.


    Meanwhile, in the back of the town car, Effie was pulling open the envelope Alistair had given her.


    “Mommy, it’s just paper,” she said, disappointed.


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    Isolde looked at the document. It was a trust deed for five million dors.


    “It’s a start, baby,” Isolde said, her voice quiet and even. “It’s the first brick in the wall we’re going to build.”


    The car pulled up to Harper Vance’s apartment building in the city — a modest brownstone that, to Isolde, looked like a castle.


    Harper was waiting on the stoop. She ran down and pulled Isolde into a hug, careful of the brace.


    “You’re trending,” Harper whispered close to her ear. “Team Isolde is bigger than the Super Bowl.”


    Isolde smiled. “Let’s go inside. I have a war to n.”


    Harper’s apartment smelled of coffee and old books. It was cluttered, warm, and safe.


    Isolde sat at the kitchen table, herptop open, having changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweater.


    “Okay,” Isolde said, setting her phone on speaker. “Arthur? Are you ready?”


    Arthur — the most ruthless divorce attorney in New York — answered immediately. “The papers are drafted. Cruelty, adultery, attempted fraud, and we’ve addedst night’s uwful entry. It’s a masterpiece.”


    “Serve him,” Isolde said. “Today. Now.”


    “Where?”


    “He has a board meeting at 2:00 PM. Skyline Headquarters. Conference Room A.”


    “Public,” Arthur chuckled. “I like your style.”


    At 2:15 PM, the ss doors of the Skyline conference room swung open.


    Grayson was standing at the head of the table, attempting to exin to twelve angry board members why their stock had dropped fifteen percent since the g.


    “We are stabilizing the narrative,” Grayson was saying. “The Phoenix project was a misunderstanding.”


    A short, balding man in a trench coat walked in. He did not look like a board member.


    “Grayson Lancaster?” the man asked.


    Grayson stopped. “Who are you? Security!”


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