Chapter 332

Chapter 332:

Isolde took a quiet sip of her water, her hand perfectly steady. “Perhaps she enjoys her privacy, Director.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Well, if she’s so brilliant, why isn’t she here? Why is she hiding?”

Isolde smiled into her glass. I am here, you fool.

Belle turned to Isolde, eyes flashing with malice, determined to reassert the hierarchy.

“Isolde, pass the salt,” she said. “The waiter is busy.”

It was a deliberate performance — treating her like a servant in front of Caldwell, reminding everyone at the table that Isolde was the ex-wife, the discarded one.

Isolde picked up the heavy silver salt shaker.

𝖡𝖾 𝘵h𝘦 𝘧ir𝘀t 𝘵о 𝗋e𝗮𝘥 𝗼n g𝗮𝘭𝗇о𝘷e𝘭ѕ.com

She didn’t pass it. She set it down firmly on the tablecloth, directly in front of her own plate.

“Reach for it yourself, Belle,” she said calmly. “You have arms.”

The table went dead silent.

Grayson hid a smirk behind his hand. He couldn’t help it.

Caldwell let out a low chuckle. “Spirited. I like that.”

Grayson leaned toward Isolde, his shoulder brushing hers. “You’re enjoying this,” he murmured.

“I’m enjoying the wine,” Isolde whispered, not looking at him. “You are just background noise.”

Beneath the table, Grayson’s hand drifted to her thigh, fingers grazing the velvet of her gown. It was possessive. A claim.

Isolde recoiled as if burned. She shifted her chair and turned a cold glare on him.

Grayson’s eyes were dark. He wasn’t looking at her like a man who had signed divorce papers. He was looking at her like a man who had only just understood what he had thrown away.

A loud voice shattered the tension.

At the next table, Daron McKnight rose to his feet, swaying. He was unmistakably drunk.

“Enough talk about invisible women and heat shields!” he announced. “Let’s play cards!” He swung his gaze toward the Lancaster table. “I challenge Carson Dynamics — if you have the funds. Or did the divorce bleed you dry, Grayson?”

Caldwell folded his napkin with quiet deliberateness and set it beside his plate.

“A poker game?” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Excellent idea. I’ll watch.”

The hotel’s private lounge was a world of green felt, cigar smoke, and heavy crystal tumblers.

Daron sat at the head of the table, shuffling chips with aggressive clumsiness. “Minimum buy-in, fifty grand.”

Arland reached for his checkbook. Isolde placed a hand on his wrist.

“I’ll play,” she said. “With my own money.”

She transferred the funds on her phone. Daron sneered. “Alimony money?”

“Investment returns,” Isolde corrected.

Grayson sat opposite her. Belle stood behind him, her hands working his shoulders, marking her territory.

The dealer dealt the cards. Texas Hold’em.

For the first hour, Isolde was a statue. She folded hand after hand, watching, cataloguing. She noticed that Daron touched his nose when he held a weak hand. She noticed that Grayson’s pupils dilated when he had a face card.

Hand 5. Isolde raised. Daron called. Grayson called.

The flop came: King, Seven, Two. Rainbow.

Isolde bet $10,000. Daron folded immediately. Grayson called.

The turn was a Jack.

Isolde checked. Grayson bet $20,000.

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