Chapter 166:


    Belle’s eyes went wide. She leaned forward. “Hey — is that my painkiller?”


    Isolde paused, her fingers hovering over the bottle. “What?”


    “That bottle!” Belle pointed. “The hexagonal pills. Oxy-Neurol. Gray, you told me I lost my prescription on the jet! You said the cleaners threw it out!”


    Isolde looked at Grayson. He shifted in his seat, refusing to meet her eyes.


    “It’s a spare,” he mumbled.


    “No, it’s not!” Belleughed, a high, tinkling sound. “Look at thebel. It has my name on it. I recognize the pharmacy.”


    Isolde slowly turned the bottle over.


    There, on the pharmacybel, were the words: Isabe Escobar.


    The realization struck her like a p. When her arm had been in excruciating pain the other night, he hadn’t called a doctor. He had simply reached into his briefcase and tossed her his mistress’s leftover painkillers — because her pain was an inconvenience. She had been using Belle’s discarded medicine.


    A wave of nausea so strong she tasted bile rolled through her.


    “Oh my god,” Belle giggled. “Isolde, that’s for my chronic migraines, sweetie. But I suppose it works for — whatever happened to you. Keep it. My doctor gives me refills whenever I want.”


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    Isolde stood up. The chair flew back.


    She crossed to the corner of the room where a sleek stainless steel trash can stood.


    “Careful,” Daron sneered. “That stuff has a high street value.”


    Isolde held the bottle over the bin and looked at Grayson.


    “You are cheap,” she said. “In every sense of the word.”


    She let go. The bottle hit the bottom of the empty metal bin with a loud, hollow ng.


    “I don’t ept trash,” Isolde said. “Even if it’s prescription-grade.”


    Grayson’s face darkened. “Isolde, stop being dramatic.”


    “Dramatic?” She walked back to the table. “I’m being hygienic.” She picked up a pen. “Fine. You want the seat? Take it.”


    Isolde stared at the contract. The paper was crisp, white, and heavy — it felt like a temporary ceasefire agreement.


    “You’re giving her my tform,” Isolde said quietly. “You’re putting a fraud on stage.”


    “I’m putting a face on stage,” Grayson corrected. “Belle is marketable. She represents the future of SkyLine.”


    “She represents a lie,” Isolde murmured.


    She picked up the pen. Her left hand was clumsy, forcing her to grip the barrel at an awkward angle just to keep it steady.


    She thought about Saul, whose experimental treatments were now fully funded by Orbital. She thought about Ellyn, safe and secure for the first time in years. She thought of Effie, waiting for her mother to bring her home.


    This signature was a key. It would unlock her daughter’s door.


    She pressed the pen to the paper.


    Isolde Carson.


    She didn’t sign “Lancaster.”


    Grayson noticed. His eyes flicked to the signature, but he said nothing. He pulled the papers away the moment she lifted the pen.


    “Smart choice,” he said, sliding the documents into his briefcase. “Liam will bring Effie to the penthouse within the hour. The transfer of the Summit credentials will be handled electronically.”


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