Chapter 170:


    He knew Belle hadn’t designed a thing. He knew he had stolen it from Isolde’s server. He remembered her warning about the “flying oven” — and the way she had looked at the contract, signing away her seat with that cold, terrifying smile.


    A knot of unease tightened in his stomach. Isolde wasn’t the type to give up. If she had surrendered the seat, it was because she had found a better ce to stand.


    But where?


    The Javits Center was a hive of activity. Streams of sunlight poured through the ss ceiling, illuminating billions of dors’ worth of aerospace technology on disy.


    Isolde entered through the loading dock. She was wearing a ck turtleneck and ck cks, her cast hidden beneath a loose ck cardigan. The “Anna Smith” badge hung around her neck.


    She looked like a stagehand. Invisible.


    She made her way to the Orbital Systems booth in Zone C. It was modestpared to the sprawling pces of Boeing and Lockheed, but it was sleek and professional.


    “Anna,” And greeted her with a subtle nod, looking sharp in a charcoal suit. He didn’t hug her — he knew about the arm — but he squeezed her good shoulder. “Ready to stand in the shadows?”


    “I prefer the shadows,” Isolde said. “Better view.”


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    She didn’t linger at the booth. A maic pull drew her toward the center of the hall.


    Zone A. The SkyLine Technologies exhibit.


    It was massive. A rotating tform at the center held a full-scale prototype of the Phoenix-X7 — sleek, predatory, painted a matte midnight blue. Crowds were gathering. Cameras were shing.


    And there they were. Grayson and Belle.


    They looked like royalty. Grayson in a tuxedo, Belle in a shimmering gold gown that hugged every curve. She was holding court,ughing, resting her hand on the wing of the jet as though it belonged to her.


    “It’s magnificent,” a reporter gushed. “Ms. Escobar, tell us about the wing design.”


    “Oh,” Belle said, waving a hand airily. “We wanted something sweeping. Like a bird of prey. It’s all about the aesthetic of speed.”


    Isolde stood at the back of the crowd. A twitch moved through her eye. The aesthetic of speed. It was about drag coefficients and lift-to-weight ratios.


    Grayson spotted her.


    His eyes widened. He hadn’t expected to see her here — dressed like this, looking like a ghost at his victory party.


    He excused himself and walked over, Belle trailing behind him like a golden shadow, the crowd parting for them both.


    “Isolde?” Belle gasped, her voice dripping with mock concern. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’ting.”


    “I have a badge,” Isolde said, tapping the stic.


    Daron McKnight appeared at Grayson’s nk,ughing. “Avionics Technician? What, are you here to fix the coffee machine, Isolde?”


    A ripple ofughter moved through the sycophants surrounding them.


    “Careful, sister,” Belle said, stepping closer to the jet. “Don’t stand too close. The radar-absorbent coating is very sensitive. You might scratch it with that cast.”


    Isolde looked at the jet. She looked at the wing Belle was leaning on.


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