Chapter 85:


    Grayson, in his arrogance, had revoked her fingerprint ess and user-level permissions, but he hadn’t wiped the root firmware. He didn’t know she had written a backdoor into the system years ago — a ghost protocol, for emergencies.


    She checked the logs. Front Door: Locked. Motion Sensors: Living Room Active.


    She needed that thesis. And she needed to retrieve it before Grayson realized the system still had a ghost.


    Tomorrow. Grayson had a board meeting at nine in the morning. The Penthouse would be empty. Or so she hoped.


    Her phone buzzed. A text from Harper.


    Be careful. The locks aren’t the only things broken in that house. I’m hearing whispers. He’s unstable.


    Isolde stared at the message. It was cryptic — and it confirmed her fears. She deleted it.


    She was going back. Onest time.


    Isolde parked the Volvo three blocks from the Lancaster building. She worerge sunsses and a scarf, keeping her head down.


    The doorman — a new face she didn’t recognize — was busy helping an elderly woman with her poodle. Isolde slipped past him into the service elevator.


    Her heart hammered against her ribs as the numbers climbed. PH.


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    The doors opened. The foyer was silent.


    She approached the keypad but didn’t touch it. Instead, she pulled out a slim, unmarked burner phone, its screen glowing with a simple terminal interface. She tapped the screen, running a string of code she had embedded in thework’s firmware years ago — a ghost protocol designed to bypass all user-level security. A silent, digital key.


    The light on the keypad shed green. Not from a code, but from amand.


    Isolde let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She pushed the door open.


    The smell hit her first. Not lemon polish anymore — something cloying and heavy, synthetic roses. Midnight Rose. Belle’s perfume. It was everywhere, saturating the air.


    The living room was a mess. Takeout boxes, empty wine bottles, discarded ties. It looked like a fraternity house, not a family home.


    Isolde moved silently toward the master bedroom. The door was ajar.


    She pushed it open.


    And stopped.


    Belle was there.


    She wasn’t at work. She was perched on the vanity stool, surrounded by scattered papers from the safe — which stood open — wearing Isolde’s favorite silk morning robe. The pale blue one Isolde had bought in Paris. She was clearly working, a frustrated crease in her brow as she attempted to decipher a stack of Isolde’s old research notes.


    The nausea hit Isolde so hard she had to grip the doorframe. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was revulsion — pure, biological disgust. They were living in her space, using her sheets, wearing her clothes, and attempting to plunder her mind.


    Belle looked up, startled by the sound. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed into a smirk.


    “Well,” Belle drawled, not moving an inch. “You still have a key? Gray really needs to update his security.”


    Isolde walked into the room. “Where is it?”


    “Where is what?” Belle asked, examining her manicure.


    “My thesis. It was in the safe.”


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