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. "Mrs. Lancaster," the nurse said softly, pity etching lines around her eyes. "Is... is your husband coming? For the transport arrangements?" "He's busy," Isolde whispered. She walked out into the New York night. It was pouring rain. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't call a driver. She just walked. The water soaked through her cheap wool coat. The cold rain mixed with the hot tears she finally allowed to fall, masking them. She reached the penthouse two hours later. The apartment was dark. Silent. On the mantle sat a framed photo. The "Family" portrait. Grayson sat in a leather chair, Kaiden on his lap. Belle stood behind them, her hand resting familiarly on the chair back. Isolde was in the background, slightly out of focus, holding a blurring Effie. She sat on the floor in front of the cold fireplace, shivering. It was past midnight when the elevator chimed. Grayson walked in, bringing the scent of rain and Belle's signature perfume-sandalwood and roses-into the stagnant air. He loosened his tie, his eyes narrowing when he saw Isolde sitting in the dark, soaking wet. "For God's sake, Isolde," he snapped, tossing his keys onto the console table. "What are you doing? Ruining the hardwood floors?" Isolde didn't look up. She was staring at her hands. "Where is Effie?" he asked, his tone clipped. "I assume she's asleep? Or did you leave her with the nanny so you could sit here and feel sorry for yourself?" "She's gone," Isolde said. Grayson sighed. He rubbed his temples. "Gone to sleep? Good. I don't have the energy for her crying tonight. Or yours." He walked past her toward the master bedroom. He didn't see the plastic bag on the floor. "Grayson," she said. He paused at the door, not turning around. "What?" "Nothing," she whispered. He slammed the door. Isolde sat in the dark, listening to the silence of a house that no longer held her daughter's heartbeat.

The funeral was small. Pathetic, really. Three days later, weeping a steady drizzle over the private cemetery in Queens. There were no press, no Lancaster associates. Just Isolde, the priest, and two members of the household staff who had liked Effie enough to show up. Grayson wasn't there. His assistant had emailed Isolde that morning. Emergency board meeting regarding the Asian market expansion. Mr. Lancaster sends his regrets. Isolde watched the small white casket being lowered into the ground. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. She pulled it out, thinking it might be the hospital with some final paperwork. It was an Instagram notification. Belle Escobar had tagged Grayson Lancaster. Location: The Hamptons Golf Club. The photo showed Grayson mid-swing. In the background, Kaiden was holding a set of miniature golf clubs, laughing. Belle was holding a mimosa. The caption read: Sometimes you just need a mental health day with the boys. Isolde stared at the screen until the pixels burned into her retinas. A mental health day. While his daughter was being buried in the mud. She didn't scream. The part of her that could scream had died in the ICU. She went home. The penthouse was quiet. Grayson was still gone. Isolde walked into Effie's room. It still smelled like baby powder and lavender. She began to pack. Clothes into boxes. Toys into bags. The drawings on the fridge. The toothbrush in the bathroom. The front door opened around 6 PM. Grayson walked in.He stopped in the hallway, seeing the pile of boxes. "Finally," he said, loosening his polo shirt. "I've been telling you to clear out that clutter for months. We can turn that room into a proper study for Kaiden now." Isolde stood still, holding a manila envelope. She walked over to him. "Sign this," she said. Grayson glanced at the envelope. "What is it? Another bill for her specialists? I told you, just send it to accounting." "Just sign it," she said. Her voice was hollow. Grayson rolled his eyes, taking the pen she offered. He didn't even read the header. He scrawled his signature-Grayson Lancaster-large and looping, the signature of a man who owned the world. "There," he said, tossing the envelope back onto the console. "Done. Now, Belle got that promotion to VP today. We're hosting a dinner tonight. Tell Mrs. Higgins to prepare something impressive. And try to look... less like a corpse." Isolde took the signed papers. She didn't answer. She walked to the terrace doors. "Where are you going?" Grayson called out, already walking toward the kitchen. Isolde stepped out into the cool evening air. She had built a fire in the decorative fire pit earlier. She held the wedding album over the fire. The flames licked up the sides, curling the photos. She watched her own smiling face from five years ago turn black and crumble to ash. She picked up the teddy bear. The one Effie slept with every night. She dropped that too. "Isolde?" Grayson was standing at the glass doors, a glass of water in his hand. He looked confused. He sniffed the air. "What are you burning?" he asked, sliding the door open. "It smells like burning plastic." Isolde turned to look at him. Her eyes were voids. "Trash," she said. "Just trash." Grayson frowned. He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest, a tightness he couldn't explain. He rubbed his sternum. "Stop being weird. Get dressed for dinner." He went back inside. Isolde watched him go. She turned back to the fire. The bear was gone. The photos were gone. She walked back into the kitchen, opened the cabinet above the sink, and took down the bottle of prescription sleeping pills. The ones the doctor gave her for her 'nerves.' She poured a glass of water. She walked to the guest bedroom-the one she had been sleeping in for the last year. She sat on the edge of the bed. She swallowed the first pill. Then the second. Then the handful. She lay back, crossing her hands over her chest. I'm coming, Effie, she thought. Wait for Mommy.

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."