Chapter 92:


    “The anonymous designer of the X7. The author of the papers on hypersonic fluid dynamics. The ‘Sophia’ you have been trying to headhunt for three weeks.” Nelson’s expression was one of undisguised contempt. “She has been sleeping in your bed for five years, you idiot.”


    Grayson looked at Isolde as though he were seeing a stranger.


    “You?” he whispered. The word was saturated with dawning dread. “It was you all along?”


    Isolde stood. She didn’t shrink. She grew.


    “Yes, Grayson. It was.”


    “But… the Phoenix…” Grayson stammered. “The patent…”


    “Is mine,” Isolde said. “And since I designed it before we were married and filed it under a pseudonym you never thought to ask about, it is separate property.”


    Grayson’s face went white. He was no longer looking at his wife. He was watching billions of dors in intellectual property slip through his fingers.


    “We can work something out,” Grayson said, his voice shifting instantly — smooth, desperate, transactional. “Isolde, baby. We’re a team. Think of what we could do together. SkyLine and your designs…”


    ????е mо??t рор?r ??????????? ???? ????l??????е????.со??


    “Get out,” Nelson said.


    “Isolde, please—” Grayson reached for her.


    “Get. Out.” Nelson leveled his cane at the door. “Or I will have you removed from every government contract list in Washington by morning.”


    Grayson looked at the old man and knew he wasn’t bluffing.


    He looked at Isolde onest time — a collision of greed and horror in his expression.


    Then he turned and walked out.


    Isolde sank back onto the sofa. Her hands were trembling.


    “He knows,” she whispered.


    “Good,” Nelson said. “Now he knows who he’s fighting.”


    Outside the door, Grayson leaned against the wall. He pulled out his phone, his hands unsteady.


    He typed into the search bar: Sophia Engineer Patent Value.


    The results loaded. Estimated value: $500 million — $1 billion.


    Grayson lowered the phone. He felt physically ill.


    He had treated a billion-dor asset like a maid.


    The g ended. Isolde walked out to the valet stand with And, feeling drained but carrying her head high. Grayson’s Maybach was already pulled up to the curb. He was waiting. Belle sat in the passenger seat, looking sulky.


    When Grayson saw Isolde, he opened his door and stepped out.


    “Isolde,” he called.


    And moved to step between them. “She’s done talking to you, Lancaster.”


    “I’m talking to my wife,” Grayson said, pushing past him. He stopped directly in front of Isolde.


    His eyes were different now. The contempt was gone, reced by a hungry, calcting intensity.


    “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “Why hide it?”


    “Would you have listened?” Isolde asked. “Or would you have simply taken it? Like you took everything else?”


    “I would have built you a pedestal,” Grayson said, his voice urgent. “We could have ruled the industry together.”


    “I didn’t want a pedestal, Grayson. I wanted a partner. I wanted a husband who cared that our daughter was burned.”


    Grayson lowered his voice. “Isolde, I’m instructing mywyers to file a motion to pause the divorce.”


    Isoldeughed — a sharp, incredulous sound. “Excuse me?”


    “Citing potential for reconciliation. We need to re-evaluate. For Effie. For the family.”


    “For the patent,” Isolde corrected. “You want the IP.”


    “I want us,” Grayson said. He reached for her hand.


    .


    .


    .