Chapter 213:


    She nced at And. He gave her a subtle, steady nod, signaling he was willing to back her to any amount. But Isolde slowly shook her head. This was her fight, and she wouldn’t let And pay for her family’s dignity.


    Grayson caught the silent exchange. To him, it looked like a disagreement between a patron and his charge. A cold, cruel resolve settled in his eyes.


    “Four times,” Grayson said, his voice t and final. “The vase goes to Belle.”


    The curator brought the gavel down with a sharp crack. “Sold! To Mr. Lancaster for four times the asking price!”


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    Daron began to p, slow and mocking. “That’s more like it. A counterfeit can never outbid the real deal.”


    Belle squealed with delight, throwing her arms around Grayson’s neck and casting a triumphant nce at Isolde. “Thank you for being so gracious, Isolde. I promise I’ll take excellent care of it.”


    Bile rose in Isolde’s throat. It wasn’t merely the loss of the vase. It was the realization that Grayson was willing to spend a fortune trampling her grandmother’s memory just to please a woman like Belle.


    Effie, sensing her mother’s distress, reached up and hugged Isolde’s leg tightly. “Mommy,” she whispered, her small voice trembling. “Can we go home now? I don’t like it here.”


    Isolde drew a slow, deep breath. She crouched down, ignoring the dull ache in her wrist, and scooped Effie up into her arms. Then she stood — her spine rigid as iron.


    As she passed Grayson, she paused. Her voice dropped to a low, lethal whisper meant only for him.


    “You will regret this.”


    Grayson watched her walk away, her head held high. The victory felt hollow — like swallowing stones. He looked at Belle’s flushed, gleeful face as she loudly discussed where to disy her new trophy, and found that he didn’t feel like a winner at all.


    Isolde stepped out of the gallery into the biting night air. The cold hit her face like a ssh of rity.


    And followed her out, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Sophia. I could have —”


    “No,” Isolde interrupted, her eyes catching the light of the streemps. “Money can’t buy back dignity. I’ll get it back my own way.”


    Just then, a distinguished older gentleman in a bespoke charcoal suit hurried toward the gallery entrance. Isolde went still. She recognized him immediately — Nathaniel Cross, the original owner of the vase, and a long-time friend of her grandmother.


    Nathaniel stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened. “You look just like her. Are you Evelyn’s granddaughter?”


    Isolde gave a brief, polite nod. She wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “I am. Excuse me, Mr. Cross.”


    She turned and walked toward the parking lot, holding Effie close against her chest. Nathaniel Cross stood on the sidewalk and watched her go, a thoughtful, lingering look on his face, before he finally turned and pushed through the gallery doors.


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