His Abandoned Ex Wife

Isolde sat in the dark, listening to the silence of a house that no longer held her daughter's heartbeat. She just gripped Effie's hand.

It was so cold.Effie was only five. Five-year-olds were supposed to be warm, sticky with juice. They weren't supposed to be cold.

"Time of death, 8:42 PM. Cause, complications from acute pneumonia leading to cardiac arrest."

The doctor's voice was flat. Professional.

Isolde's knees hit the linoleum.She fumbled for her phone. Her fingers were shaking so violently she dropped it twice before unlocking the screen.

Grayson.

She dialed his private number.

It rang once. Twice.

Declined.

A second later, a text message buzzed against her palm.

In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling.

Isolde stared at the screen. The white letters on the grey background blurred.

Five miles away, the crystal flutes at the Lancaster Charity Gala chimed like delicate bells.

Grayson Lancaster adjusted his silk tie, his expression the perfect mask of bored affability. He stood near the chocolate fountain, watching Belle Escobar dab a smudge of fondant from a six-year-old Kaiden's cheek.

"You're spoiling him," Grayson said, but the corner of his mouth ticked up. It wasn't a smile, exactly, but it was the closest thing to warmth he'd shown all evening.

Belle laughed, the sound light and practiced. "Someone has to. Where is the lady of the house? I thought Isolde was bringing Effie tonight."

Grayson's face hardened. The warmth evaporated. "She's being dramatic. Effie had a fever or something. Isolde uses the girl's health as an excuse to avoid these events. She knows I hate it when she sulks."

"Poor thing," Belle murmured, though her eyes were scanning the room for photographers. "She really struggles with the pressure, doesn't she?"

"She struggles with everything," Grayson muttered, taking a sip of his champagne.

Back at the hospital, the nurse handed Isolde a plastic bag. It contained a pair of small, pink socks and a hair clip shaped like a butterfly.