Chapter 3 3

The first thing Isolde felt was weight.

A crushing, suffocating weight on her chest.

She gasped, her body jerking violently as air rushed into her lungs.

Her eyes snapped open.

She wasn't in the guest bedroom. She was standing up.

Disorientation slammed into her. The smell of smoke and ash was gone, replaced by the cloying scent of expensive lilies and... Santal 33. Grayson's cologne.

Orchestral music blasted her ears. Vivaldi.

A waiter bumped into her shoulder. "Pardon me, Mrs. Lancaster."

Isolde stumbled, catching her reflection in a mirrored pillar.

She was wearing a blue silk dress. The dress she had burned in the fire pit. Her hair was done up in an intricate chignon. Her face... her face looked younger. Tired, yes, but the hollow, skeletal look of the last three days was gone.

She touched her cheek. Warm.

She looked up. A massive banner hung across the ballroom ceiling.

HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY KAIDEN

& Effie

The second name was there, but it was an afterthought, printed in a script so small and delicate it was nearly swallowed by the grand, bold letters of her brother's name. Her birthday too, and they'd made her name a footnote.

Isolde's heart stopped, then she pulled out her phone.

The date.

It was exactly one year ago.

The room spun. She gripped the pillar for support. Hallucination? Purgatory? Hell?

"Isolde!"

The voice was sharp. Impatient.

Grayson walked toward her. He looked the same-impeccably dressed, handsome, and annoyed. But there was a difference. He didn't have the slight grey at his temples he'd had at the funeral.

"What is wrong with you?" he hissed, keeping his voice low so the guests wouldn't hear. "You're standing there gaping like a fish. Belle needs help with the cake cutting."

Belle Escobar appeared at Grayson's elbow, radiant in a red gown that cost more than Isolde's car. She held a napkin out.

"Oh, Isolde," Belle said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Did you spill something? You look so pale."

Isolde stared at them. Then, she saw it.

A flash of movement near the dessert table. A small girl in a plain white dress, trying to reach a cookie.

Effie.

Isolde didn't think. She shoved past Grayson, her shoulder checking him hard enough to make him stumble.

"Isolde!" he barked.

She ignored him. She dropped to her knees in front of the girl.

Effie turned, her eyes wide and fearful. She flinched, expecting to be scolded for touching the sweets.

"Mommy?" Effie whispered.

Isolde grabbed her. She pulled her daughter into a hug so tight she felt Effie's small ribs against her own.

Warmth.

A heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was the most beautiful sound in the universe.

Tears exploded from Isolde's eyes. Not the silent weeping of the funeral, but loud, gasping sobs of relief. She buried her face in Effie's neck, smelling the baby shampoo, the sweetness of her skin.

"You're here," Isolde choked out. "You're here."

The music seemed to stop. Guests were staring. The crazy wife, crying on the floor at a birthday party.

Grayson was there in a second. He grabbed Isolde's upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Get up," he snarled into her ear. "You are making a scene. Stop this hysteria immediately."

Isolde froze.

She felt the heat of his hand on her arm. The hand that had signed the divorce papers without looking. The hand that had held a golf club while their daughter was being buried.

Slowly, Isolde raised her head.

She looked at Grayson.

She stood up, keeping one hand on Effie's shoulder.

She looked at Grayson's hand on her arm.

"Let. Go."

Grayson blinked, taken aback by the icy command in her tone. "Isolde, don't start-"

Isolde reached up with her free hand. She grabbed his fingers. With a sharp, practiced twist she hadn't used in six years-muscle memory from a life he knew nothing about-she peeled his hand off her arm.

She didn't just remove it. She threw it back at him.

Grayson stumbled back a step, shock plastering his face.

Isolde straightened her spine. She smoothed her dress.

"I said," she repeated, her voice carrying across the silent pocket of the room, "do not touch me."