Chapter 120:


    “The Phoenix-X7,” Isolde said. “The fighter jet you’ve been trying to build for three years — the one Belle couldn’t figure out.” She took the portfolio from And and tossed it onto the stage. Itnded squarely at Grayson’s feet. “I solved the structural integrity w. The titanium ribbing is now integrated into a proprietary fuel system that optimizes thrust withoutpromising the airframe. And through my longstanding rtionship with the Department of Defense, Orbital has just secured the sole-source, ten-billion-dor development contract. It is being executed under the banner of Carson Dynamics, now a subsidiary of Orbital Systems.”


    The room erupted.


    “Ten billion?”


    “She controls the Phoenix program?”


    Grayson picked up the contract. His hands were shaking. He read the first page.


    Licensor: Sophia (Isolde Carson).


    He looked at her, his face a mask of pure horror. He had known she was Sophia — but he had never believed she could marshal this kind of power, this fast. He had always assumed her genius was a tool he owned, not a weapon she could aim.


    “You — how?” Grayson whispered, his voice cracking. “The Department of Defense… authorization like this takes years. It’s impossible.”


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    “I am Sophia,” Isolde said, her voice ringing with absolute rity. It was not a confession. It was a coronation. “My clearance and my designs were pre-approved years ago through Professor Nelson’s program. All I needed was a corporate partner I could trust. That jet is mine, Grayson. You were trying to sell a stolen car. I just sold the factory.”


    She turned to Belle.


    “Nice Buddha,” Isolde said. “I hope it protects you from thewsuitsing your way.”


    She reached down and took Effie’s hand.


    “Happy birthday, Alistair,” Isolde said. “I’m taking my daughter home. She has school in the morning.”


    Then she turned and walked out.


    Behind her, the Lancaster legacy began to crumble.


    The heavy oak doors of the ballroom mmed shut behind Isolde, muffling the chaotic murmur of the guests within. But the silence of the foyer was short-lived.


    Thunder cracked directly overhead — a sound so violent it vibrated through the marble floor beneath her heels. Isolde tightened her grip on Effie’s hand. Her daughter was trembling, her small face pressed into the ck velvet of Isolde’s skirt.


    “It’s okay,” Isolde whispered, though her own heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The adrenaline of the confrontation was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaky exhaustion. Her left arm, encased in its ck brace, throbbed steadily in time with the thunder.


    They stepped out onto the portico, and the world dissolved into gray chaos.


    The wind was a physical weight, shoving them back toward the doors. Rainshed sideways, turning the driveway into a river. The valet stand had blown over entirely.


    Isolde’s driver, a man named Carl whom And had hired, came running from the side entrance, soaked to the bone. He had no umbre — it would have been useless.


    “Ms. Carson!” he shouted over the gale. “We can’t leave!”


    A drop of cold dread slid down Isolde’s spine. “What do you mean?”


    “The bridge,” Carl yelled, wiping rain from his eyes. “Lightning hit the old oak. It took out the stone bridge. The main road is blocked. Security has locked down the perimeter — mudslide warnings.”


    Isolde stared at the dark, twisting driveway. It was their only way out. The Lancaster estate was a fortress, and now it was a prison.


    “There has to be another way,” Isolde said, her voice rising. “I cannot stay here.”


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