Chapter 194:


    Beatrice’s lips thinned. “I told him. I specifically told him.” She nced at her watch. “The service starts in ten minutes. If he is not in that pew when the priest begins, there will be consequences.”


    She swept past Isolde into the church.


    Isolde stepped around the corner of the building, away from the guests, and pulled out her phone.


    She dialed Grayson.


    Voicemail.


    She dialed again.


    Voicemail.


    “Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you, Grayson.”


    She dialed a third time. It rang and rang and rang.


    Finally, a click.


    ????????l???? ??????????es ???? ??a?????????????.c??m


    “Hello?” Grayson’s voice. He sounded breathless.


    “Where are you?” Isolde hissed. “Beatrice is here. The service is starting.”


    “I’ming. Traffic is a nightmare on the bridge.”


    “You should have left an hour ago. You promised.”


    “I know, I know. I’m ten minutes away. Just stall them.”


    “Stall a funeral?” Isolde asked, incredulous. “Are you insane?”


    “Just do it, Isolde. I’ll be there.”


    In the background, she heard a sound. A distinct, metallic zip.


    Then a woman’s voice — muffled, but audible.


    “Ouch. Gray, be careful. It’s stuck.”


    Isolde went perfectly still. The blood in her veins turned to ice.


    “Who is that?” she asked.


    “What? No one. The radio,” Grayson stammered. “Look, I’m driving. I’ll be there.”


    He hung up.


    Isolde lowered the phone and stared at the brick wall of the church.


    A zipper. It’s stuck.


    He wasn’t in traffic. He was getting dressed. Or undressed. With her.


    A wave of nausea hit so hard she had to press her hand t against the wall to steady herself. He was with Belle. Right now. While she was burying her grandmother.


    She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.


    But she couldn’t. She had a role to y.


    She drew a slow breath, smoothed her dress, and walked back to the church entrance.


    Just as she reached the doors, a bright red Ferrari roared into the parking lot and came to a diagonal stop across two spaces.


    Isolde’s heart sank.


    Her father, Keyon Carson, stepped out. He was wearing a suit that was too shiny, too tight, and wholly inappropriate. On his arm was a woman who looked young enough to be his daughter, chewing gum with cheerful indifference.


    “Well, well,” Keyon called out, spotting Isolde. “Look at the grieving granddaughter.”


    Isolde stepped directly into his path. “Dad. Not today.”


    “Get out of my way,” Keyon sneered. He smelled of whiskey and cheap cologne. “I’m here to pay my respects. And to find out what the old bat left me in the will.”


    “She left you nothing,” Isolde said. “She wrote you out ten years ago. Go home.”


    “You ungrateful little —” Keyon raised his hand.


    “Hey!”


    Saul wheeled himself forward, his oxygen tube rattling. “You touch her, Keyon, and I’ll run you over.”


    Keyonughed. “You? You’re half dead, Saul.”


    “I’m alive enough to call the cops,” Saul wheezed. “Get out.”


    Guests were staring and whispering. It was a circus. A nightmare.


    Then tires screeched at the curb. Grayson’s Bentley pulled up behind the Ferrari.


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