Chapter 42:


    Grayson stood near the front, his arms crossed. He wasn’t looking at the exit. He was looking at Sophia.


    “Get her,” Grayson said to Daron, not taking his eyes off the woman on stage.


    Daron blinked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “What? Boss, Belle is—”


    “Belle is a liability,” Grayson cut him off. His voice was devoid of emotion. “She humiliated us. The stock is going to tank tomorrow. We need a win. We need that.” He pointed at Sophia. “Offer her whatever she wants. Double the sry. Triple it. I want her at SkyLine by Monday.”


    The ceremony ended. Isolde walked down the steps, immediately surrounded by a swarm of reporters and headhunters.


    “Sophia! Who are you?”


    “Sophia! Will you reveal your identity?”


    “Sophia! Boeing wants to talk to you!”


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    And Roth stepped in front of her, his broad shoulders acting as a shield. “Back off,” he growled. “Noments. Let us through.”


    The crowd parted, but not for And.


    Grayson Lancaster walked through the throng. People stepped aside instinctively, the aura of wealth and power clearing a path.


    He stopped in front of Isolde. He looked immacte, even in defeat. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. It was ck, with gold lettering.


    “Sophia,” Grayson said. His voice was smooth, charming—the voice he used to close billion-dor deals. “I’m Grayson Lancaster, CEO of SkyLine. That was… impressive.” He extended the card.


    Isolde looked at the hand holding it. It was the hand that had ced a ring on her finger. The hand that had signed the checks for Belle’s apartment. The hand that had pushed Effie away in the park.


    She felt a surge of nausea, followed by a burning, purifying anger.


    She didn’t take the card. She didn’t offer her hand.


    She pressed the button on the voice modtor clipped to her cor.


    “I have no interest,” the mechanical voice grated out, loud enough for the nearby reporters to hear, “in apany that cuts safety thresholds to save money.”


    Grayson’s smile faltered. “We can discuss the engineering. I can offer you resources you can’t imagine.”


    “And I have no interest,” the voice continued, “in working for a man who mistakes nepotism for talent.”


    Grayson froze. His hand remained extended, the card trembling slightly in the air. The insult was precise. It was personal.


    Cameras shed. The silence in the immediate circle was deafening.


    Isolde turned her back on him. “Let’s go, Effie.”


    She walked away, leaving him standing there with his hand out, a king rejected by a peasant.


    Grayson lowered his hand slowly. He felt a flush of heat rise up his neck. The rejection stung, but the phrasing… the specific, surgical nature of the insult… It didn’t sound like anyone he knew, but the logic felt eerily familiar. It was the cold, analytical scalpel he’d seen in Valkyrie’s reports, finding the one vulnerability he thought was hidden and twisting the knife. The mechanical voice made it impossible to ce, yet the style of the attack left a disquieting echo in his mind.


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