Chapter 164

Chapter 164:

Isolde sat in a plush armchair in her own office, her arm propped on a pillow. The doctor had given her antibiotics and a stern lecture about stress. Ellyn and Effie were safe in the penthouse, with two of Arland’s security guards posted discreetly in the hall.

Grayson had dropped her at the curb like unwanted luggage, his face a mask of fury and fear. He hadn’t gotten his way. Not yet.

But he had planted a seed of doubt. The Summit. He wanted to ruin it for her.

She pulled out her phone with her left hand and dialed Arland.

“Isolde?” His voice was warm — a stark contrast to the coldness of the last hour. “Is everything alright? My security team checked in.”

S𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘺𝗼𝗎 𝘄𝘰𝗻’t p𝘂𝘵 𝗱ow𝘯 o𝗇 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝗇𝘰𝘷elѕ.c𝗈𝗆

“I’m fine,” she said vaguely. “Arland, about the Summit — Grayson is planning something. He wants my keynote slot.”

There was a pause. “He can’t take it. It’s registered to you, as Chief Architect of the Orbital-Carson division. He has no authority.”

Isolde closed her eyes. Grayson wouldn’t use authority. He would use blackmail. Effie. The family name.

“He wants to put Belle on stage,” she whispered. “To present the Phoenix.”

“That’s insane,” Arland said, his voice hardening. “She’d be laughed off the stage. She doesn’t know the first thing about hypersonic flight dynamics.”

“He doesn’t care,” Isolde said, staring out at the city lights. “It’s about saving face. He wants to create enough chaos to make the DOD question their investment — to make it look like a messy domestic dispute rather than a clean acquisition.”

“He’s desperate,” Arland concluded. “So what’s our move? We could get a restraining order, have SkyLine barred from the event for IP theft.”

“No.” A plan was forming in her mind, cold and sharp. “A public fight is exactly what he wants. It makes us both look unstable. We’re going to do something else.”

“What are you thinking?”

“He wants a platform for Belle?” Isolde said, a dangerous edge entering her voice. “Fine. We’ll give him one. Just not the one he’s expecting.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The whole world knows I’m Sophia now,” Isolde said. “A badge with that name on it is just a target. I need to be invisible. Can you get me a credential — a generic one? No name, or a false one. Something low-level.”

“You want to go undercover at your own victory lap?” Arland asked, understanding dawning in his voice.

“The point,” Isolde said, a slow smile spreading across her face, “is that ‘Isolde Carson, CEO,’ has a reserved seat in the front row he can steal. ‘Anna Smith, avionics technician,’ has access to the service corridors, the loading docks, and the presentation servers.”

A long silence on the other end of the line. Then a low whistle.

“You’re going to let them walk into a trap.”

“I’m going to let them build their own stage,” Isolde said. “And then I’m going to burn it to the ground.”

She hung up.

She walked out of her office, where Marcus, one of Arland’s men, was waiting.

“Ma’am,” he said, nodding respectfully.

“The bill for my mother’s nebulizer treatment last week,” she said. “Send the invoice to Grayson Lancaster. With a note: ‘For services rendered.'”

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