Chapter 159:


    “London,” Isolde said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly across the lobby. “It rains a lot in London, doesn’t it, Grayson?”


    Grayson’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. He couldn’t.


    Isolde walked toward him and stopped toe-to-toe with him.


    “You lied to me while I nursed your sick child,” she whispered. “You were drinking cocktails while I was wiping vomit.”


    “Isolde—”


    “No,” she cut him off. “Don’t speak.”


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    She leaned in closer. “You think you won today because you have the money. But you forgot one thing, Grayson. Money can buy a house. It cannot buy physics.”


    She stepped back. She looked at Belle, then at Cheryl.


    “I am going to defend Carson Dynamics,” Isolde announced. “And then I am going to buy InnoTech for pennies on the dor after it implodes. And I will make you watch.”


    She took her mother’s arm. “Let’s go.”


    They stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid closed, Isolde caught onest look at Grayson’s face.


    He looked terrified.


    Good.


    In the cab, Ellyn was still crying. “How can we save it? Henderson said no.”


    Isolde scrolled past the blocked numbers on her phone and pressed call.


    It rang once. Twice.


    “Hello?” A male voice.


    “And,” Isolde said.


    A silence. The sound of a chair scraping back.


    “Isolde?” And Roth’s voice shifted instantly — sharp, concerned. “What’s wrong? I saw you leave the office early. Is it Effie?”


    “No,” Isolde said. “It’s war. Cheryl Juarez is making a y for Carson’s patents. Grayson is backing her.”


    And swore under his breath. “How much do you need to shut them down?”


    “Fifty million. Liquid. By Friday.”


    And didn’t hesitate. “Consider it done. What’s our first move?”


    “You handle the money,” Isolde said. “I’ll handle the weapon. I’m going to leak the design w in InnoTech’s core product. We’re going to short their stock into oblivion.”


    “Music to my ears,” And said. “Wee to the fight, Isolde. It’s about time.”


    Isolde hung up and looked out at the city scrolling past the window.


    The housewife was dead.


    The Phantom was back.


    Isolde gripped the armrest of the ck Lincoln town car — a vehicle from Orbital Systems’ executive transport pool — her knuckles white against the plush leather. Every turn the driver made through the chaotic midtown traffic sent a fresh spike of agony radiating from her cast up to her shoulder.


    She didn’t flinch. She didn’t have the luxury of pain today.


    The call hade an hour ago, shattering the fragile quiet of her Tribeca apartment. Mrs. Gable, the nanny, her voice choked with tears. “He just — he showed up at the school, Ms. Isolde. He had a court document, a temporary order for an unscheduled visit. He took her. He said he was taking her for ice cream.”


    But the GPS tracker on Effie’s watch — a device Isolde had insisted on from the beginning — told a different story. It showed a single, unmoving dot in a part of Queens they hadn’t set foot in for six years. A ce filled with ghosts he knew she hated.


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