Chapter 185:


    Grayson pulled out his phone. His hand was trembling. He dialed Isolde.


    It rang. And rang. And rang.


    Finally, it connected.


    “Isolde?” He tried to sound authoritative.


    “What do you want?” Her voice was ice.


    “Grandmother is here. She wants you at dinner tonight. We’re celebrating your sess.”


    “I’m busy,” Isolde said.


    “Busy doing what?” Grayson snapped. “Sulking?”


    “I’m busy signing the final affidavit for the divorce petition,” Isolde said, her tone perfectly level. “And reviewing an update from Arthur. The motion to nullify the NDA regarding Kaiden has been fast-tracked. Yourwyers should have the notice by now.”


    Grayson’s blood ran cold. “Isolde, don’t do this.”


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    “It’s done,” she said. “And Grayson?”


    “What?”


    “Don’t call me Isolde Lancaster anymore. It’s Ms. Carson.”


    The line went dead.


    Grayson stared at the phone. The silence at the table was deafening.


    “Well?” Beatrice asked. “Is sheing?”


    Grayson looked at the empty chair. He looked at Belle, who was oblivious, angling her phone for a selfie.


    “No,” Grayson whispered. “She’s noting back.”


    Grayson Lancaster pulled his Bentley onto the gravel driveway of the Lancaster estate. The tires crunched over the stones — a sound that usually signaled homing, but tonight it sounded like grinding teeth.


    He cut the engine. The silence of the Hamptons at night settled heavily around him. He checked his phone. No messages from Isolde. No messages from Belle. Just a calendar notification: Dinner with Beatrice.


    He adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror. He looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were dark purple bruises against his pale skin. He drew a slow breath, trying to summon the mask of the dutiful grandson, and stepped out of the car.


    The heavy oak doors opened before he reached them. Higgins, the old butler, stood in the entrance. His face was a map of wrinkles, none of them formed by smiling. He looked past Grayson toward the empty passenger seat of the Bentley.


    “Good evening, sir,” Higgins said. The absence of madam hung in the air like a held breath.


    “Good evening, Higgins.” Grayson walked past him into the foyer. The air smelled of beeswax and old money.


    He walked into the dining hall. The table was long enough to seat thirty people. Tonight, it was set for two. Beatrice Lancaster sat at the far end — a small, imperious figure in a high-backed velvet chair. She didn’t look up as he approached. She was cutting a piece of bread with surgical precision.


    “Good evening, Grandmother,” Grayson said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Her skin felt like parchment. She didn’t stop cutting the bread.


    “Where is your wife?”


    Grayson pulled out the chair to her right. The wood scraped against the floor. “Isolde isn’t feeling well. She sends her apologies.”


    Beatrice finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. “Unwell. Is that the official statement? Or is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”


    “She’s emotional,” Grayson said, unfolding his napkin. “You know how she gets. She needs space.”


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