Chapter 39:


    She turned on her heel, keeping her head down, and walked briskly toward the elevators.


    Inside the VIP lounge, Grayson stood up. He walked to the ss wall, his hand pressing against the cool surface.


    “Gray?” Belle’s voice was slurred, thick with wine. “What is it? Are you still thinking about that ‘Sophia’ woman?”


    Grayson didn’t answer immediately. He watched the elevator doors close on a slender figure in a ck hoodie. The walk. The stride. It was so familiar it made his teeth ache.


    “No,” Grayson said, turning back to the room. “Just a ghost.”


    “Come sit.” Belle patted the cushion. “The photographers are still looking.”


    Grayson looked at her. He looked at the wine stain on her lip. He felt a sudden wave of revulsion.


    “I’m going to bed,” he said abruptly.


    He left her there, posing for an audience of three tired paparazzi.


    Back in her room, Isolde locked the door and leaned against it, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.


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    Her phone buzzed in her pocket.


    She pulled it out. A text from Grayson.


    Grayson: Are you done with this tantrum? I know your mother’s birthday ising up. Don’t you think she has enough to worry about with her health? This public spectacle isn’t helping. Come home.


    Isolde stared at the screen. Her fingers gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white.


    He remembered the date. But he didn’t use it to offerfort. He used it as a weapon. He used her mother’s illness—the very thing that kept Isolde up at night—as a tool to guilt her into submission, to drag her back into the box he had built for her.


    The audacity was breathtaking.


    She didn’t reply. She didn’t type a furious paragraph. She simply swiped left and deleted the thread.


    She walked to the window and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The city was a grid of lights, indifferent and beautiful.


    He cared about his reputation. He cared about SkyLine’s stock price. He cared about control.


    Tomorrow, she wouldn’t just win apetition. She would take the things he cared about and crush them into dust.


    Behind her, Effie shifted in her sleep. “Mommy… spaceship…” she mumbled.


    Isolde turned back to the desk. She sat down, the coffee cooling beside her. She cracked her knuckles again and began to type the final execution code for the simtion.


    The main hall of the Javits Center was a cavern of noise and light. The air conditioning was sting, but the atmosphere was hot, heavy with the smell of ozone and nervous sweat.


    Isolde sat at the small table designated for “Team Sophia.” She wore ck cargo pants and a ck hoodie. A ck face mask covered the lower half of her face, and a baseball cap shadowed her eyes. On the table sat a small ck box—a voice modtor.


    Effie sat next to her, wearing a matching, smaller outfit. She looked like a miniature shadow operative.


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