Chapter 135:


    Liam was waiting near the security turnstiles, looking like a man marching to the gallows. He held a square velvet box in both hands — blue, not the Lancaster ck. Tiffany’s.


    When he saw Isolde, he straightened. “Mrs. Lan — Ms. Carson. Mr. Lancaster wanted me to give you this personally. He said he knows the brooch was ruined for you. He wants to rece it.”


    Isolde stopped five feet away. She regarded the box with the same expression one might give a dead rat.


    “Rece it?” she repeated, her voice t. “He thinks he can rece a hundred-year-old family heirloom with something he bought on Fifth Avenue?”


    “It’s a sapphire, ma’am. Unheated. He thought—”


    “He didn’t think,” Isolde cut him off. “He calcted. He thinks a shiny rock will make me forget that his mistress wore my grandmother’s legacy on Instagram.” She paused. “Take it back. Tell him that if he sends anything else, I will file a harassment suit faster than his stock price is dropping.”


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    Liam shifted ufortably. “Ms. Carson, please. He’s waiting in the car outside. He just wants five minutes.”


    Isolde looked past him, through the ss doors. The ck Maybach sat idling at the curb like a hearse.


    She felt a sudden, perverse urge to end this — to look him in the eye and make certain he understood that Sophia was not someone he could buy off with blue velvet boxes.


    “Five minutes,” Isolde said. “And then I’m calling security.”


    She pushed through the revolving doors. The humid New York air hit her face.


    The rear window of the Maybach rolled down. Grayson sat in the shadows. He looked terrible — dark circles beneath his eyes, his usually immacte suit rumpled beyond recognition.


    “Get in,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It was a habit.


    Isolde remained on the sidewalk, arms crossed. “Say what you have to say from there.”


    Passersby were already slowing down. Phones wereing out. The Sophia story was trending, and a public confrontation between the estranged couple was exactly the kind of scene the tabloids lived for. Grayson noticed the cameras. His jaw tightened.


    “Isolde, please. Don’t make a scene. Just get in the car.”


    Isolde weighed her options. A screaming match on the sidewalk would only feed the tabloids. She opened the door and slid onto the leather seat, leaving it utched behind her.


    “Two minutes,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Clock’s ticking.”


    The interior of the car smelled of him — sandalwood, expensive leather, and the faint, underlying scent of stress. It was a smell that used to mean safety. Now it just smelled like a cage.


    Grayson held out the blue box. His hand was trembling slightly.


    “I know,” he began, his voice rough. “I know Belle shouldn’t have touched the brooch. I know it upset you.”


    “Upset me?” Isolde turned to look at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You think I’m upset? Grayson, I am repulsed.”


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