Chapter 346

Chapter 346:

Isolde stopped pacing. She thought of Grayson’s arrogance in the empty apartment — the way he had moved through it as though it were still his.

“No,” she said. “I’m going to be bulletproof.”

She picked up her phone and called Liam, her newly hired personal assistant.

“Get me the file on Hector Escobar.”

“He was a mid-level supplier, right?” Liam asked.

Read without interruptions on .com

“He was,” Isolde said. “But I want to know who his friends were.”

She spent the next hour mapping the guest list. Senators. Tech moguls. Suppliers.

A pattern emerged.

“This isn’t just a funeral,” she told Arland. “Hector was a nobody, but Grayson has turned his memorial into a power play. He’s footing the bill for St. Patrick’s Cathedral and flying in half of Washington. He wants me there to project unity.” She paused. “I’ll use it to project strength.”

Her phone buzzed. A text from Grayson.

Wear black. Modest. No scenes.

Isolde read it, a flicker of contempt crossing her face. She didn’t reply. Instead, she forwarded it to Liam with a single instruction: Handle this.

“Let him think I’m obeying,” she murmured to Arland. “It lowers his guard.”

Her phone rang again. Effie.

“Mommy?” Her small voice filled the room. “Are you going to see Daddy?”

Isolde softened instantly. “Yes, sweetheart. Just for work.”

“He sent me a doll,” Effie said. “It’s big and has a fancy dress. Belle called and said I should name it ‘New Mommy.'”

The lava hit Isolde’s bloodstream all at once.

“Put it in the closet, Effie,” she said, her voice carefully controlled despite the fury underneath. “I’ll buy you a telescope. We don’t play with dolls.”

She hung up.

The doll was a psychological attack on her child.

Isolde grabbed her keys.

“I need a dress,” she said.

Arland raised an eyebrow. “Black?”

“Black,” Isolde said, her eyes blazing. “But sharp enough to cut.”

Sunday morning broke with a sky the color of a bruise. Rain fell in sheets.

Isolde stood in front of her mirror.

She wore a black structural dress — high-necked, long-sleeved, fitted like armor. It was severe, intimidating, and undeniably expensive. She put in diamond studs. Small, cold, real.

“You are Sophia,” she whispered to her reflection. “You are Phantom.”

She repeated her secret identities like a mantra.

A car horn sounded outside. Grayson’s Maybach.

Isolde went down. Liam held an umbrella, but the wind was strong. She was wet by the time she reached the car door.

Inside, the warmth enveloped her immediately, carrying the scent of leather and Grayson’s expensive cologne.

Grayson sat in the back, immaculate and dry, not looking up from his tablet. He didn’t slide over. He pointed to the front passenger seat.

“Sit there,” he said. “I need room to work.”

It was a deliberate insult — a clear hierarchical line drawn between them. Owner in the back. Everyone else in the front.

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