Chapter 174:


    As they passed, Belle stumbled. It was theatrical: a sudden lurch to the side, aimed directly at Isolde.


    Isolde saw the moveing a split second before it happened. She instinctively tried to pivot away, a fighter’s reflex. But the dead weight of the cast threw off her bnce, slowing her just enough for Belle to close the distance.


    “Oh!” Belle cried out.


    Unable to fully evade, Isolde felt Belle’s shoulder m into her. The coffee cup in her left hand jerked. Dark, scalding liquid sshed out, coating the back of her hand and wrist.


    “Ah!” Isolde gasped, the pain instantaneous and searing. The skin turned an angry red within seconds. She dropped the cup, the rest of the liquid sttering across the floor.


    Belle copsed onto the carpet with a wail. “My ankle! Oh god, my ankle!”


    Grayson spun around. He didn’t even nce at Isolde. He dropped to his knees beside Belle, his face twisted in concern.


    “Belle? Are you okay?” He hovered over her, hands fluttering uselessly.


    “She pushed me,” Belle sobbed, pointing a manicured finger at Isolde. “I tripped, and she shoved me down! Gray, it hurts!”


    Isolde stood there clutching her scalded hand against her chest, breathing in short, sharp gasps. The pain was blinding. Her only functional hand was on fire.


    Grayson looked up at her, his eyes cold and using. “Are you insane? What is wrong with you?”


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    “Are you blind?” Isolde gritted out, tears of pain pricking her eyes. She held up her red, blistering hand. “She threw herself at me. I’m the one who’s burned.”


    Grayson nced at her hand for a fraction of a second, then dismissed it. “You spilled your own coffee because you were clumsy. Look what you did to her.”


    “I didn’t touch her,” Isolde said, her voice shaking.


    “Just apologize,” Grayson snapped, pulling Belle to her feet. Belle leaned heavily against him, burying her face in his shoulder — though her eyes were dry. “Apologize, Isolde. Now.”


    People were staring. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Sterling’s secretary watched from the VIP rope, her expression unreadable.


    Isolde looked at the man she had once vowed to cherish. He was holding the woman who had destroyed their family and demanding an apology from the victim.


    “Apologize?” Isoldeughed — a broken, hollow sound. “In your dreams, Grayson.”


    She turned on her heel and marched toward the restrooms, head held high, though her vision was blurring from the pain.


    “Isolde!” Grayson shouted after her. “Walk away! That’s all you know how to do!”


    She didn’t stop. She pushed through the heavy door of thedies’ room and went straight to the sink, thrusting her hand under the cold tap.


    The relief was minimal. The skin was already blistering.


    “Isolde?”


    And’s voice came from the doorway. He had followed her to the entrance and pushed inside, ignoring the startled look of a woman applying mascara.


    “Let me see,” he said, reaching for her hand.


    Isolde pulled it from the water. It was angry, swollen, and raw.


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