Chapter 322

Chapter 322:

Isolde got into the car and tried to wipe the wine from her skin, but it was sticky and already setting into the fabric. Her phone rang.

She looked at the screen. It was her realtor.

“Ms. Carson,” the realtor said. “We have a problem with the Carson Estate sale.”

Isolde closed her eyes.

“What now?” she said.

The next morning, Isolde sat in her home office at the Carson Estate wearing a bathrobe. Her white suit was in the trash.

“What do you mean, a lien?” she asked into the phone.

“Mr. Lancaster has placed a temporary legal hold on the property,” the realtor explained. “He’s claiming a dispute regarding fixtures and furnishings — specifically, some artwork and furniture, citing a clause about jointly acquired assets during the marriage. It’s a frivolous claim, but it’s enough to freeze the listing.”

Isolde gripped the phone. “He signed the deed. He gave up the furniture.”

“He’s contesting it,” the realtor said. “It stalls the listing for at least thirty days.”

Isolde slammed her hand on the desk.

𝗕𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺

“He knows I need the capital for Carson Dynamics’ expansion,” she whispered. “Not to keep the lights on — to accelerate our timeline, to beat him to market. He’s not choking my survival. He’s choking my growth.”

Her cell phone rang.

The screen flashed: St. Jude’s Prep School.

Isolde’s heart stopped. She answered immediately.

“Isolde Carson.”

“Ms. Carson?” It was the school nurse, her voice tight and careful. “Effie is in the infirmary.”

The world tilted on its axis. Business vanished. Money vanished.

“What happened?” Isolde demanded.

“There was an incident on the playground,” the nurse said. “She has some injuries.”

“I’m coming,” Isolde said. “Don’t let anyone touch her.”

She grabbed her keys and ran out of the house.

She drove the McLaren like the racer she used to be, weaving through traffic, running red lights, her hands locked around the leather steering wheel until her fingers ached.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

She skidded into the parking lot of St. Jude’s. The brick walls and ivy looked like a prison. She sprinted to the infirmary.

Effie was sitting on a cot, holding an ice pack against her arm. Her knee was bleeding through a bandage.

“Effie!”

Isolde rushed to her and fell to her knees beside the cot. “Baby. Let me see.”

Effie looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen, though she had stopped crying. She looked small and broken.

“Kaiden pushed me,” Effie whispered.

Isolde went still.

“Kaiden?”

“He said I don’t belong here.” Effie’s voice trembled. “He pushed me off the slide.”

The Headmaster walked in — a short, nervous man in a tweed suit.

“Ms. Carson,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Isolde stood. She rose to her full height and looked down at him, every trace of corporate composure replaced by something far more elemental.

“My daughter is bleeding,” she said. “Where is he?”

“Mr. Lancaster is on his way,” the Headmaster said quickly. “We’ll mediate.”

“There is no mediation for assault,” Isolde said.

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