Chapter 303
Chapter 303:
“You look good,” he said, his words slightly slurred, his eyes dark and heavy. “For a divorced woman.”
A cold spike of adrenaline hit Isolde’s bloodstream. Her heart rate accelerated.
She stepped to the right, trying to walk around him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lancaster,” she said coldly.
Grayson shifted, blocking her path again. He reached out and grabbed her bare upper arm, his fingers digging into her skin.
“Mr. Lancaster?” he scoffed. A bitter, ugly smile twisted his lips. “Last week it was ‘Gray.'”
Isolde stared at his hand on her arm and felt a wave of pure physical revulsion.
“Last week I was your wife,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Now I am a stranger. Let go of me.”
Grayson didn’t let go. He pulled her closer, his grip bruising.
“You will never be a stranger,” he growled, leaning his face down toward hers. “You are mine, Isolde.” The alcohol had completely stripped away his corporate filter. “Stop this act. Come back to the penthouse. I will forgive you for filing those papers.”
Isolde froze.
у𝘰𝘶𝗿 ոе𝘹t 𝖿𝘢𝘷𝗼𝗋𝗶𝘵e 𝗿e𝗮𝗱 і𝗌 o𝘯 𝘨𝗮𝗅𝗻о𝘷𝘦𝘭s.с𝘰𝗺
A cold, disbelieving laugh ripped its way out of her throat.
“Forgive me?” she repeated.
Grayson leaned in closer, tilting his head, trying to press his lips against the curve of her neck.
“I know you miss me,” he murmured.
It was sheer audacity. It was absolute, sickening delusion.
Isolde remembered Effie’s pink cast. She remembered the terror in her daughter’s eyes on the climbing wall. She remembered the secret of his bastard son, codified in a legal document.
With a sudden, violent twist, she ripped her arm out of his grasp.
She didn’t swing. She didn’t scream. She planted her feet, her body a column of ice and fury.
The sound that followed was not a slap, but a low, guttural hiss that echoed off the marble walls.
“Touch me again, Grayson,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a rage so profound it was almost silent, “and the next time you see me will be in a courtroom, where I will detail every single one of your depravities to a judge. Your affair will be the least of your concerns.”
Grayson stumbled backward — not from a push, but from the sheer venom in her words. He hit the wall hard, his shoulders slamming against the stone. His hand rose instinctively to his cheek as if he had been struck, his eyes wide with absolute shock.
Isolde stood over him, her chest heaving. Her hand was unclenched, but it trembled from the force of her restraint.
“The only reason I’m not screaming for security right now,” she hissed, stepping closer and invading his space, “is that the public humiliation would be a gift you don’t deserve.”
She held his gaze for one long, burning moment.
“And for the record,” Isolde said, her eyes scorching with contempt, “I do not miss you. I pity you.”
She turned and walked past him. Her high heels clicked sharply against the slate floor — a steady, rhythmic sound of victory.
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