Chapter 77:


    Twenty minutester, at the Mount Sinai Emergency Room intake desk.


    “That will be a co-pay of five hundred dors for the immediate burn treatment,” the nurse said.


    Isolde handed over her tinum Amex — the one Grayson paid for. She knew exactly what would happen next, but she wanted the official record. Another piece of evidence for Harper.


    The nurse swiped it. Frowned. Swiped again.


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    “I’m sorry, ma’am. Declined.”


    Isolde’s phone buzzed. A text from the bank: Card suspended by primary ount holder.


    Isolde stared at the message. Checkmate. He was trying to strangle her — even now, even here.


    She reached into her purse and pulled out her personal phone. She opened the digital wallet — a secure app linked to her new employer. The screen disyed a sleek, matte-ck virtual card with no numbers, only a silver chip icon and the Orbital Systems logo. It was her signing bonus ount. Unlimited corporate expense authorization for emergencies and relocation.


    “Try this one,” Isolde said, holding the phone over the contactless reader.


    The nurse took the phone. Her eyebrows lifted. The terminal beeped.


    Approved.


    “We’ll get her a private room,” the nurse said, her entire manner shifting in an instant.


    Isolde walked into the treatment room. Effie was dozing, her arm neatly bandaged, her small face finally peaceful.


    Isolde sat down and opened herptop.


    She had a job to start tomorrow. And she was going to own it.


    Tuesday morning. New York City hummed with the sound of ambition.


    Isolde stepped out of the taxi in front of the Orbital Systems tower. She wore a white suit sharp enough to cut ss. Her heels clicked on the pavement like gunshots.


    She had left Effie with Harper and a private nurse at the apartment. Today was for war.


    She walked into the lobby — a cathedral of ss and steel.


    Standing near the executive elevator bank, clearly finishing a meeting, were two familiar figures. Belle Escobar and Daron McKnight.


    Belle wore a floral dress with a print so loud it seemed designed to scream wealth rather than whisper it. Daron was in his usual shy suit.


    Daron spotted her first. He smirked. “Well, look who it is. The ex-Mrs. Lancaster. Here to beg for a handout?”


    Belle giggled. “Oh, Daron, be nice. Maybe she’s applying for the janitorial staff. I hear they have good benefits.”


    Isolde didn’t slow down. She walked straight toward the executive elevators.


    Daron stepped into her path, blocking the way. “You can’t go up there, sweetheart. That’s for the big boys. You lost your ess when you lost your husband.”


    He gestured vaguely, as if to shoo her away.


    Isolde stopped. She looked at Daron. “Move.”


    “Make me,” Daron sneered. He reached out to grab her arm and steer her away.


    Isolde didn’t think. Instinct took over.


    She sidestepped his reach. Her hand shot out, mping onto his wrist. She twisted, using his own momentum against him — a move she had learned in the pitnes, dealing with drunk mechanics.


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