Chapter 139

Chapter 139:

“The presentation on the new satellite comms module?” Isolde interrupted, taking a sip of her sparkling water. “Arland’s due diligence team is remarkably thorough. When they analyzed your public filings, they found figures that simply didn’t add up — which led them to the internal QA report you submitted to your underwriters.”

Cheryl puffed up. “It’s revolutionary.”

“Revolutionary, indeed,” Isolde continued, her voice dropping an octave and sharpening to a blade. “A forty-percent yield rate on a silicon-germanium wafer is truly a revolution — in inefficiency. Most companies would call that a manufacturing disaster. You’re calling it a product launch. Your thermal management is nonexistent. The chip will overheat before it reaches the stratosphere. You’re selling a bomb, Cheryl, and hoping no one notices until the check clears.”

A murmur moved through the crowd. Investors exchanged uneasy glances.

𝗪𝖾 𝗎𝗉d𝗮t𝖾 e𝘷𝖾r𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝘦𝗸 𝗼𝗇 𝗴𝖺𝗹𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝘭𝘀.c𝘰𝗺

“That data is confidential!” Cheryl snapped.

“It’s sloppy,” Isolde corrected.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Belle stepped forward, her voice rising. “You’re just jealous because Gray chose me!”

Isolde looked at Belle, then at Grayson.

“He chose a woman who thinks ‘yield rate’ is a traffic sign,” Isolde said. “Grayson, I used to think you were simply cruel. Now I realize you’re also bad at math.”

She set her glass down on the table beside Cheryl — with just a touch too much force. The liquid sloshed over the rim and splashed across Cheryl’s gold dress.

“Oops,” Isolde said, entirely deadpan. “Unstable equilibrium. Just like your company.”

She took Arland’s arm. “Come on. The air is getting stale over here.”

They walked away, leaving the Lancaster faction standing in a puddle of champagne and humiliation.

Grayson stared after her, his heart hammering. He should have been furious. He should have been defending his partner. Instead, only one thought cut through everything else.

How did she know the yield rate?

He turned to Cheryl. “Is it true?”

Cheryl was frantically dabbing at her dress with a napkin. “Of course not. She’s bluffing. She’s a bitter ex-wife, nothing more.”

But her hands were shaking. And for the first time, Grayson saw the fear hiding behind the ambition.

The terrace offered a cool reprieve from the stifling tension of the ballroom. The New York skyline glittered in the distance, indifferent to the petty wars of the elite.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Arland said, handing Isolde a fresh drink. “That was brutal.”

“It was necessary,” Isolde said, leaning against the stone balustrade. “Cheryl is a bully. You have to hit bullies where it hurts — her wallet.”

“You certainly dented it. I saw three investors walking away from her table.”

A shadow fell over them.

Daron McKnight was lounging against the doorway, a glass of whiskey in hand, his tie loosened, a smirk fixed on his face. He was drunk.

“Sophia,” he slurred. “Or should I say the Widow Lancaster? You put on quite a show in there.”

Isolde didn’t turn around. “Go away, Daron.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” He pushed off the wall and stumbled closer. “You know, Gray likes them docile. But me? I like a woman with claws.” He reached out, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her arm.

Isolde spun around and slapped his hand away. “Touch me again and you’ll lose the finger.”

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