Chapter 195:


    Grayson stepped out looking impable — not a hair out of ce. He adjusted his cufflinks as he walked toward them, taking in the scene: the drunk father, the dying uncle, the pale wife.


    He didn’t look guilty. He looked annoyed.


    “Is there a problem here?” Grayson asked, his voice carrying easy authority.


    Keyon looked at him and shrank back slightly. Money recognized money.


    “Just… family business,” Keyon muttered.


    “Leave,” Grayson said — quietly, without raising his voice. He didn’t need to.


    Keyon grumbled something under his breath, grabbed his girlfriend’s arm, and got back in the Ferrari. He peeled out of the lot.


    Th?? ??o??t ????рu??аr n????еl?? о?? g??l???v??l??.??o??


    Grayson turned to Isolde. He reached out and took her hand, his grip firm — too firm.


    “I’m here,” he said.


    Isolde looked at him. She caught it beneath the expensive cologne, underneath everything he wore like armor.


    Midnight Rose. Belle’s perfume.


    She felt like vomiting.


    “You’rete,” she whispered.


    “Let’s go inside,” Grayson said, pulling her toward the doors. “Grandmother is watching.”


    The church was cool and smelled of incense and damp stone. Isolde walked down the aisle with her arm linked through Grayson’s. To the onlookers, he was the pir of strength supporting his grieving wife. To Isolde, he was a shackle.


    They reached the front pew. Beatrice was already seated, staring straight ahead at the altar.


    Grayson leaned in. “Grandmother.”


    Beatrice gave a barely perceptible nod. “You cut it close.”


    “Traffic,” Grayson whispered smoothly.


    They sat. Isolde settled between Grayson and Saul, acutely aware of the heat radiating from Grayson’s body. He was calm. Composed.


    The service began. The priest spoke about kindness and legacy. Isolde tried to listen, tried to summon her grandmother’sugh, the particr warmth of her hands. But all she could focus on was the pressure of Grayson’s hand on hers.


    He had taken her hand in hisp and was slowly rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. It looked affectionate. But every time she tried to pull away, his grip tightened.


    Stay put, his hand said. Perform.


    Isolde studied his profile. He wore an expression of polite sorrow — nodding at precisely the right moments, bowing his head during the prayer with practiced humility.


    He was acting. Every gesture a performance for Beatrice, for the shareholders, for the room.


    She let her gaze drop to his shirt cor. There, just below the jawline, faint but unmistakable against the white starched cotton — a smudge. Pinkish-red.


    Lipstick.


    Isolde’s breath caught. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the stained ss window above the altar.


    Jesus wept.


    She wanted to weep — not for her grandmother, who was finally at peace, but for herself. For the five years she had given to a man who would arrive at a funeral with his mistress’s lipstick on his cor.


    Saul reached over and patted her other hand. His skin was paper-thin and cold, but his touch was real.


    Isolde squeezed his hand and let go of Grayson’s.


    Grayson shot her a look. A warning.


    Isolde ignored it. She kept her hand in Saul’s.


    The service ended. They rose for the final hymn.


    “Amazing Grace…”


    Grayson sang. He had a pleasant baritone.


    .


    .


    .