Chapter 187:


    Beatrice turned and moved toward the door. “Eat your soup, Grayson. Alone. It seems fitting.”


    She left the room. The heavy doors closed with a soft, final click.


    Grayson sat alone at the massive table. He stared down at the bisque. The smell that had seemed so appetizing minutes ago now turned his stomach. He pulled out his phone and opened his messages with Isolde. His thumb hovered over the screen. He wanted to type: Why didn’t you tell me you were allergic?


    But a memory surfaced before he could.


    Two years ago. Isolde in the ER. Swollen lips. Hives spreading across her skin. She had called him. He had been at a jewelry store, selecting a bracelet for Belle’s birthday. He had told Isolde he was in a meeting and sent a driver to pick her up.


    He hadn’t even asked what had happened.


    He set the phone down on the white tablecloth. Itnded with a dull thud. For the first time in years, a cold, gnawing sensation spread through his chest. It wasn’t love. It was something far more unsettling — the slow, terrible realization of his own negligence.


    Rainshed against the windows of Isolde’s Tribeca apartment. It was a gray, miserable afternoon — the kind that seeped into your bones — a day made for quiet reflection before the storm of tomorrow’s memorial.


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    Isolde stood in front of the mirror. The cast on her right arm, a stark white against her skin, made dressing a clumsy, frustrating affair. She used her bandaged left hand to carefully smooth the fabric of a simple dark gray cashmere sweater, wincing as the material caught on the gauze. Every small movement sent a fresh throb of pain from the burn beneath. She wasn’t in mourning attire yet — that was for tomorrow. Today was about duty.


    The buzzer rang.


    She walked to the inte. The concierge’s voice crackled through. “Mr. Lancaster is here for you, Ms. Carson.”


    She grabbed her purse and took the elevator down. She didn’t want himing up. She didn’t want him in her sanctuary.


    Grayson was waiting under the awning, holding arge ck umbre. The Bentley idled at the curb. When he saw her, he didn’t smile. He looked tense.


    “You’re ready,” he said. It wasn’t a question.


    “I’ve been ready for an hour,” Isolde said. “This meeting with the estatewyers was your idea.”


    “Grandmother insisted,” Grayson said, opening the car door for her. “She wants all the family business settled before the service. A united front.”


    Isolde scoffed softly but slid into the leather seat. The car was warm, smelling of his cologne and polished leather. It used to be a smell thatforted her. Now it just smelled like a cage.


    Grayson got in and pulled out into traffic. The wipers pped rhythmically against the ss.


    “The florist confirmed the lilies for tomorrow,” Grayson said, his eyes on the road. “They’ll be delivered to the church at nine.”


    “Fine,” Isolde said. She looked out the window at the blurred, rain-streaked city streets.


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