Chapter 352

Chapter 352:

She set her water glass on the tray of a passing waiter, slipped quietly behind the curtain, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the cool, biting night air.

The terrace was empty.

It stretched wide and pale, its stone floor bordered by a heavy balustrade that overlooked the dark, sprawling canopy of Central Park. The rain had stopped, leaving the air crisp and sharp with the scent of wet asphalt and crushed leaves.

Isolde walked to the edge and gripped the cold, damp railing. She closed her eyes and drew a long, shuddering breath. The freezing air filled her lungs, clearing the sickening warmth of the ballroom from her head.

Then, from somewhere behind her, came the rapid slapping of small shoes against stone.

A sharp cry followed. “Ouch!”

Rоm𝖺𝗇cе аո𝗱 𝗉ass𝘪𝘰𝘯 o𝘯 𝘨а𝗅𝘯𝘰𝘃𝗲𝘭ѕ.𝘤𝗈m

Isolde spun around.

A little boy, no older than five, lay sprawled on the wet terrace floor. He was dressed in a tiny, stiff black suit that looked profoundly uncomfortable. In one hand he clutched the string of a bright red balloon; with the other, he grabbed his knee. His face crumpled, and he began to cry — loud, wet, genuine tears.

Isolde’s maternal instinct, honed by years of caring for Effie, overrode her exhaustion in an instant. She dropped her clutch onto a nearby patio chair and hurried over, crouching down until her expensive black dress pooled against the wet stone.

“Hey there, brave knight,” she said softly, keeping her voice low and soothing. “Did the ground attack you?”

The boy sniffled and looked up at her with wide, tear-filled brown eyes. “Yes.”

Isolde reached into her pocket and produced a clean, folded tissue. She gently moved his hand away from his knee. The fabric of his trousers was scuffed, but there was no blood. She dabbed the area lightly.

“Well, we can’t let the ground get away with that,” she said.

She stood, studied the offending stone paver for a moment, then lifted her black heel and stomped down on it. Hard.

The boy blinked. Then a small, watery giggle escaped his lips.

“You’re funny,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

“Leo? There you are.”

The voice was deep and smooth, threaded with mild panic.

Isolde looked up.

A tall man was striding across the terrace. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit, but he moved with none of the rigid authority of the Wall Street bankers inside — instead, his gait was fluid and unhurried. He had kind, crinkling eyes and large, capable hands. The hands of an architect, Isolde thought, without quite knowing why.

The man spotted Isolde kneeling beside his nephew. He stopped, a look of immediate apology crossing his face.

“I am so sorry,” he said, stepping forward. “Did he bother you? He slipped away from the dessert table.”

Isolde rose and brushed a stray drop of water from her skirt. “Not at all,” she said, offering a small, genuine smile. “Just a minor battle wound. We handled it.”

He smiled back — and the smile reached all the way to his eyes. It was the first honest expression she had seen all evening.

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