Chapter 165:


    Her phone buzzed. A text from Harper: The micro-drone prototypes are ready for the booth. Coded and calibrated.


    Everything was falling into ce.


    Isolde realized then that she had run out of road — and had started building a bridge.


    Grayson had systematically tried to close every door, block every exit, and burn every bridge. He had herded her to this exact spot, expecting her to fight him on his terms.


    She was about to show him what it looked like to fight on hers.


    She turned back to Marcus.


    “I have a meeting tomorrow,” she said.


    Marcus blinked. “At Lancaster Tower, ma’am?”


    “Yes. Tell Grayson I’m ready to discuss the terms of my surrender.”


    Marcus hesitated. “But you’re not…”


    “He doesn’t need to know that. Tell him I’ll be there at ten.”


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    The conference room at the top of Lancaster Tower was a ss box floating in the clouds. It was enemy territory, and Isolde walked in ready for battle. She had agreed to meet him on his turf to sell the illusion of her defeat.


    Grayson sat at the head of the long ss table — his usual seat. He had put his suit jacket back on, the armor of the CEO firmly in ce. Belle sat to his right, a triumphant smirk already ying on her lips. Daron McKnight stood by the window, looking smug.


    “You came,” Grayson said. Triumph had returned to his voice. He thought he had won.


    “You have my daughter,” Isolde said, closing the door behind her. “You knew I woulde.”


    “I hoped you would see reason,” Grayson said, pushing a folder across the table. “Here is the term sheet.”


    Isolde picked up the papers with her left hand, her eyes moving quickly across the legal jargon.


    “A gag order regarding Kaiden’s parentage,” Grayson recited. “A public statement of support for SkyLine’s ‘independent development’ of their new prototype. And the Summit — Carson Dynamics, now an Orbital subsidiary, has a VIP invite and a keynote slot reserved for the CEO. I want you to transfer the invitation and the speaking slot to Belle.”


    “She doesn’t know a turbine from a toaster,” Isolde said tly.


    “She has charisma,” Grayson countered. “She sells the dream. You are too technical. You bore the investors.”


    A surge of hatred so pure it nearly blinded her rose through Isolde’s chest. He was offering her peace at the cost of her life’s work and her silence.


    The throbbing in her arm intensified, a dull, grinding ache. She reached into her bag with her left hand and pulled out a small, unmarked prescription bottle — the pain medication the Orbital physician had prescribed, stronger than anything avable over the counter. Her wrist was chafing against the ster. She needed relief.


    She struggled with the child-proof cap, her left hand clumsy and weak. Finally, bracing the bottle against the edge of the table, she managed to twist it open with a sharp grunt of pain. The faint, sterile smell of the pills drifted into the air.


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