Chapter 186:


    “Space,” Beatrice repeated. She signaled toward the shadows, and a line of servers emerged from the kitchen.


    They ced a bowl before Beatrice and another before Grayson. Steam curled upward, carrying a rich, earthy fragrance. It was a deep, creamy roasted red pepper bisque, with a vibrant swirl of green pesto across the surface.


    Grayson picked up his spoon. He was hungry — he hadn’t eaten since the disastrous lunch at the retreat. “This smells excellent. It’s a shame Isolde isn’t here. She would have enjoyed this.”


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    Beatrice dropped her spoon. It struck the side of her fine china bowl with a sound that cracked through the room like a gunshot.


    The servers froze. The room went dead silent.


    Grayson paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He looked at his grandmother. Her face had gone rigid.


    “What did you just say?” Beatrice asked. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried more weight than a scream.


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    Grayson blinked. “I said she would have enjoyed it. What’s wrong?”


    Beatrice stood. She was a small woman, but in that moment she seemed ten feet tall. She threw her napkin onto the table, where itnded near the butter dish.


    “That pesto is made with pine nuts,” Beatrice said, each syble clipped to a sharp edge. “Isolde is deathly allergic to them. She carries an EpiPen in her purse at all times. She has been your wife for five years. Have you forgotten that?”


    Grayson froze. The spoon hovered in his hand.


    Allergy?


    His mind raced backward through years of dinners, gs, dates. He remembered her ordering a simple aglio e olio when everyone else had the pesto gnhi. He remembered her declining the canapés at their wedding rehearsal. He had always assumed she was being particr. Or watching her weight.


    “I…” Grayson started. His throat had gone dry. “I knew that. Of course I knew that. I meant — if it weren’t for the garnish —”


    “Stop,” Beatrice snapped. She walked around the table until she stood directly over him. “Do not insult my intelligence, Grayson. You are a fool.”


    Grayson lowered the spoon. The red soup suddenly looked like blood.


    “You are so busy ying house with that woman and her son,” Beatrice hissed, “that you don’t even remember what could kill your own wife.”


    “Belle is a colleague,” Grayson said automatically. “And Kaiden is —”


    “I don’t care who they are,” Beatrice cut him off. “I care about this family’s legacy. Isolde’s grandmother’s memorial service is in two days. You will be there. You will stand by her side. And you will look like a husband who actually knows his wife exists.”


    “I intend to be there,” Grayson said, his voice tight.


    “Good. Because if you embarrass this family again — if I see one more headline about you and that Escobar woman while Isolde is in mourning — the voting rights for the family trust will be reviewed.”


    Grayson’s hand clenched around his napkin. The trust. His control over SkyLine. It all hinged on her.


    “I understand,” he said.


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