Chapter 225:


    Kaiden looked up, breathless, waiting for the explosion. When Isolde didn’t move, he snipped the scissors in the air, his eyes wild with a bratty challenge. “Aren’t you mad? Why aren’t you yelling? Look — I ruined it!”


    Isolde looked at the pile of blue wool, then met the boy’s gaze. Her voice was soft and devoid of warmth.


    “Why should I be mad?” she asked. “That sweater was knitted for my child.”


    She took a step back, her expression indifferent. “And you are not my child.”


    Kaiden froze. The scissors slipped from his fingers and ttered onto the hardwood floor.


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    He had spent months screaming that he hated her, that she wasn’t his mother. But hearing Isolde say it — calmly, factually, as though he were a stranger — struck something primitive in him. He wasn’t rejecting her anymore. She was erasing him.


    Isolde turned away, her movement fluid and dismissive. “When you’re done cutting, sweep it up. Otherwise there will be no dinner tonight.”


    She walked out without looking back.


    Behind her, Kaiden sat amid the ruined wool in stunned silence for a moment before bursting into loud, terrified sobs. Isolde didn’t break stride. She went to her room, opened herptop, and began downloading the project files from the Institute.


    She was done circling the stove. She was a future aerospace engineer.


    Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in San Francisco, the charity g was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and the air was thick with expensive perfume and champagne. Grayson Lancaster stood near the edge of the ballroom, swirling his drink, his eyes fixed on his phone.


    He had been trying to ess the penthouse surveince feed for the past hour. The screen remained stubbornly ck. Connection Lost.


    “Gray, stop looking at that thing,” Belle purred, sliding her arm through his. She wore a shimmering silver gown that caught the light perfectly, her smile already arranged for the cameras shing nearby. “Isolde has a temper, sure, but she knows how to take care of a kid. She won’t let him die.”


    Grayson looked down at her. Her smile was perfect, practiced, and entirely hollow.


    “I just have a bad feeling,” he muttered.


    “You worry too much,” Belleughed, clinking her ss against his. “Enjoy the night. We’re the stars here.”


    Grayson looked around the room. Theughter felt shrill, the lights too bright. Without warning, a wave of exhaustion moved through him. He didn’t want champagne. He didn’t want polite conversation. He found himself craving, inexplicably, the simple soup Isolde used to make when he workedte — the quiet warmth of a home that had felt real.


    He gently but firmly withdrew his arm. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going back to the hotel.”


    Belle’s smile stiffened, a crack appearing in her porcin mask. “You’re leaving? Now? The auction hasn’t even started.”


    “Enjoy it for me,” Grayson said, already turning away. He walked out of the ballroom, leaving her standing alone amid the crowd.


    Belle watched his retreating back, her fingers tightening around her champagne flute until her knuckles turned white. The humiliation burned her cheeks.


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