Chapter 282

Chapter 282:

“It’s not from a defense contractor, Belle,” Isolde said, a cold smile playing on her lips. “It’s from a trust. A very private, very powerful trust.”

She pointed to the gate. “Now get off my property. You are trespassing.”

Grayson stared at her. He looked at the check. He looked at the house.

With a sudden, terrifying clarity, he understood that he didn’t know this woman at all. The quiet housewife he had overlooked for five years was gone. In her place stood a stranger with powerful friends and millions of dollars.

He felt a sharp pain in his chest. It wasn’t his broken ribs. It was his ego cracking.

He signaled his driver. “Let’s go.”

Belle tried to protest. “But Gray, the spa—”

“Get in the car!” Grayson roared.

They retreated. The Bentley splashed through the mud and drove away.

Isolde stood alone in the rain.

𝖮𝗋𝘨a𝗻𝘪𝘇𝘦 у𝗼𝘶𝗿 𝘭і𝖻𝘳a𝗿𝘺 𝗈𝘯 𝗴а𝗹𝘯o𝘃𝗲𝘭𝘀.𝗰om

She walked to the foreclosure sign, grabbed it with both hands, and wrenched it out of the soft earth. She dropped it on the ground.

Then she reached out and touched the wet brick of the gate.

It was hers. Finally, truly hers.

The heavy rain had finally stopped, leaving the air thick and close.

Isolde stood at the wrought-iron gates of the Carson Estate, her hands flat against the wet brick of the pillar, feeling the chill seep into her palms. She stayed there for a long moment, watching Grayson’s car disappear into the rain-streaked distance until the engine was nothing but a fading echo. The cold stone beneath her hands was a stark contrast to the burning fury still coursing through her — something solid and unyielding to hold onto.

She turned and walked up the long, sweeping driveway.

She pushed open the heavy oak front door. The foyer was completely empty. It smelled of old dust, damp wood, and faded memories. The grand chandelier above was dark. The walls, where expensive tapestries once hung, were bare.

It was a shell. But it was her shell.

Her phone vibrated in her trench coat pocket, the sudden buzzing loud in the empty hall. She pulled it out. The screen displayed a single name: Grayson.

Isolde stared at the letters. Her thumb hovered over the red button, but cold curiosity made her swipe green. She lifted the phone to her ear and said nothing.

“Isolde.” Grayson’s voice came through tight, laced with familiar, patronizing exhaustion. “We need to talk. That stunt you pulled at the auction today was completely unnecessary.”

Isolde walked toward the grand staircase, her wet heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “It wasn’t a stunt. It was a transaction.”

“I know you used a high-interest loan,” Grayson said, sounding utterly sure of himself. “Phoenix Trust — it sounds like a shadow lender. You can’t afford the upkeep on that estate, Isolde. The property taxes alone will bankrupt you in six months.”

Isolde stopped at the bottom of the stairs and gripped the banister. The wood was smooth and cold.

“It wasn’t a loan,” she said, her voice flat. “And my finances are none of your business anymore.”

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