Chapter 38:


    Belle Escobar had built a ss house on a foundation of sand, all to save a few dors and boost her quarterly margin report. Isolde cracked her knuckles. She would weave this data into tomorrow’s attack algorithm. It wouldn’t just be a victory; it would be an autopsy.


    She worked for two hours, the only sound the frantic clicking of her keyboard. By 2:00 AM, her eyes felt like they were filled with grit. Her throat was parched.


    She needed coffee.


    Isolde pulled a baseball cap low over her forehead and adjusted her face mask. She grabbed her key card and slipped out of the room, leaving the safety of her temporary fortress.


    The hotel lobby was surprisingly awake. The air hummed with the nervous energy ofpetition. Clusters of students and engineers huddled aroundptops on the plush sofas, fueled by energy drinks and anxiety.


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    Isolde headed toward the 24-hour café bar in the corner. As she waited for her ck coffee, her gaze drifted toward the VIP lounge.


    It was separated from the main lobby by a floor-to-ceiling ss wall, designed to offer privacy while allowing the upants to be seen—a fishbowl for the elite.


    And there they were.


    Grayson sat on a leather sofa, his posture rigid. He held a tablet in one hand, his thumb scrolling aggressively. His brow was furrowed, a deep line etched between his eyes that usually meant he was doing damage control.


    Belle was draped over him. She sat close, too close, her head resting on his shoulder. She held a ss of red wine, her other hand resting conspicuously on his chest.


    Isolde stood in the shadows of a potted palm, watching.


    A few photographers were camped out near the lounge entrance, their lenses trained on the couple through the ss. Every time a sh went off, Belle shifted slightly. She adjusted her hair. She moved her hand so the light caught the massive ring on her finger. It wasn’t a wedding ring—Grayson hadn’t married her yet—but it was a statement piece, a diamondrge enough to be a promise.


    Isolde took a sip of her coffee. It was bitter and scalded her tongue.


    Five years ago, this scene would have ripped her apart. Seeing another woman touching him, seeing him tolerate it, seeing the public disy of a unity she had been denied—it would have sent her spiraling into the bathroom to dry heave.


    Now?


    She felt nothing. It was like watching a silent film, a poorly acted melodrama. She saw the tension in Grayson’s jaw. She saw the way he didn’t lean into Belle, but rather held himself still, like a statue tolerating a pigeon.


    He looked exhausted. He looked like a man holding up a crumbling ceiling.


    Suddenly, Grayson’s head snapped up.


    He looked straight through the ss, across the lobby, directly toward the shadows where Isolde stood.


    For a second, their gazes locked. Or maybe they didn’t. She was wearing a hat and a mask, standing in the dark. He couldn’t possibly know it was her. But his eyes narrowed, searching, a look of intense, almost desperate recognition shing across his face.


    Isolde’s heart gave a single, hard thud against her ribs.


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