Chapter 356

Chapter 356:

She wrenched it open and scrambled out onto the wet pavement, her heels slipping slightly on the concrete. She straightened beneath the awning, chest heaving as she drew in the cold, clean city air. Her hands would not stop shaking. She raised her right hand and pressed it hard against the side of her jaw — the exact place where Grayson’s mouth had touched her — and wiped it away as though the skin itself were contaminated.

Behind her, the car door opened again.

Grayson stumbled out. He caught himself on the doorframe, one expensive shoe splashing into a shallow puddle. The confrontation’s adrenaline had burned off, and the whiskey was now settling into his bones with full weight. He looked confused. The damp air had plastered his hair to his forehead.

“Isolde,” he slurred, taking a clumsy step toward her. “Wait.”

She spun around.

The look in her eyes was not fear. It was absolute, glacial hatred.

“If you ever intimidate me like that again,” Isolde said, her voice vibrating with lethal calm, “I will file for a restraining order. I will have you dragged out of your glass tower in handcuffs.”

Grayson blinked slowly. His fingers reached toward her, grasping at empty air. “I just…” His voice cracked. “I missed you. I want my wife.”

𝘛𝘩е 𝘮𝗼𝗌𝗍 рo𝘱𝘶𝗹𝖺𝗋 𝗻𝗈𝗏e𝗹s 𝗈𝗻 𝗀а𝗅𝗇𝗼𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘴.𝘤𝗼𝘮

Tires shrieked against the wet pavement.

A black Cadillac SUV swerved into the loading zone and parked aggressively behind the Maybach. The back door flew open and Belle jumped out — still in her black mourning dress, a designer trench coat thrown over her shoulders. Her face wore a mask of controlled concern, though her eyes betrayed genuine panic.

“Gray!” Belle called out, running across the sidewalk. “The board is calling. There’s a rumor leaking about a hostile takeover bid. You cannot be seen like this!”

She reached Grayson and stepped directly in front of Isolde without acknowledgment, closing her hands around his arm. For a moment she studied him — the loosened tie, the unbuttoned collar, the wild disorientation in his eyes. Then she whipped around and fixed her gaze on Isolde, eyes sharp with suspicion and jealousy.

“What did you do to him?” Belle demanded, her voice shrill.

Isolde looked at the two of them: the billionaire CEO, drunk and unsteady on his feet; the mistress, desperately auditioning for the role of crisis manager. A laugh rose in Isolde’s throat — a harsh, grating sound that contained no humor whatsoever.

“I survived him, Belle,” Isolde said, her lips curling. “He is all yours.”

She shifted her gaze directly to Grayson’s bloodshot eyes.

“Look at her, Grayson,” she said, her voice dropping into pure contempt. “That is your future. Crisis and damage control.”

Grayson looked down at Belle. He took in the frantic urgency in her hands, the calculating worry in her face. Then he looked back at Isolde. His expression cracked open — a raw, agonizing conflict playing out across his features. He looked like a man waking inside a burning house, only now realizing he had struck the match himself.

Isolde stepped closer to him. She lowered her voice until only he could hear it.

“You are not a man,” she whispered. “You are a child with a checkbook. Do not come near my home again. Do not call me.”

She turned and walked toward the glass doors of her building.

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