Chapter 89:


    Isolde turned to Daron. Her expression didn’t change. It was simply bored. “Hello, Daron. Still riding Grayson’s coattails? Careful — the fabric is getting thin.”


    Daron flushed. “At least my credentials are real. You’re a mechanic who married up. And now that you’re divorced, you’re what? Sleeping with thepetition for a pity title?”


    The insult hung in the air, gross and heavy.


    Isolde looked at Grayson. “Are you going to let your employee speak to me like that?”


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    Grayson straightened his cuffs. He looked annoyed — though not at Daron. “He’s just stressed, Isolde. Don’t be so sensitive. Besides, this ‘Chief Engineer’ title — it is a bit of a joke, isn’t it? You shouldn’t parade your little hobby in front of serious people. It’s embarrassing.”


    A ringing filled Isolde’s ears. Not the noise of the party. The sound of her own blood pressure spiking.


    “A hobby,” she repeated.


    “Come on,” Grayson said, gesturing toward the hall. “Go sit down. Try not to break anything.”


    Isolde looked at him. Really looked at him. And she realized, with absolute certainty, that there was nothing left. Not even a memory worth salvaging.


    “I’m not the one who’s going to break something,” she said quietly.


    And stepped forward, his expression hardening. “Lancaster, control your associate before I do.”


    “Stay out of this, Roth,” Grayson snapped. “This is family business.”


    “Not anymore,” Isolde said.


    She turned and walked away, her red dress trailing behind her like a me.


    The cocktail hour was in full swing. Isolde stood near a disy of a turbine engine, sipping sparkling water. Her hand trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the adrenaline of restraint.


    Daron, emboldened by Grayson’s defense and one too many drinks, drifted over.


    “So,” Daron slurred, leaning too close. “How much is Roth paying you? Or is it a trade? Services rendered?” His gaze moved over her slowly, deliberately.


    “You know,” he continued, “Grayson always said you were frigid. Maybe you just needed a better… incentive.”


    Isolde set her water down on the high-top table beside her.


    “Daron,” she said calmly. “Walk away.”


    “Or what?” Daron sneered. “You’ll cry? You’ll call your mommy? Oh wait — herpany is bankrupt, isn’t it?”


    That was it. The line.


    Isolde reached out and lifted a ss of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray.


    She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think.


    She threw the contents directly into Daron’s face.


    The dark liquid sshed across his eyes and nose, dripping down onto his white shirt and silk tie. Daron gasped, sputtering and blinking. “You—” He lunged at her, his hand rising as if to strike.


    Isolde didn’t step back. She stood her ground. As his hand came toward her, she spoke — not loudly, but with a precision that cut through the sudden hush around them like a de.


    “Touch me, Daron,” she said, her eyes t and cold, “and I will ask General Miller over there why SkyLine’s bid for the NGAD contract used apressor design that is a direct patent infringement of a GE model from 2018. I have the schematics. On my phone. Right now.”


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