Chapter 364

Chapter 364:

“It is arrogance,” Isolde corrected, tracing the raised font with one finger. “Belle wants me there to witness her triumph. She wants to look down from the stage and see me humiliated. She thinks this gala — which has obviously been in the works for months — is the final checkmate.”

Arland reached across the desk and picked up the invitation, moving to drop it into the shredder. “Throw it away, Isolde. Don’t give them the satisfaction of your presence.”

Isolde snatched the card back from his hand. “No. If I don’t go, they will think I am hiding. They will think I am defeated.” She placed it carefully in her purse. “I am going. I need to see their prototype up close. I am taking notes.”

Arland sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. But you need a date. You can’t walk into a room full of Grayson’s cronies alone. Take me — or what about that architect? Nolan Chase? He’s been calling the front desk.”

Isolde shook her head, her expression hard and unyielding. “No shields. This is my fight. I walk into that room alone.”

She left the office at three o’clock.

A black car took her to a high-end boutique on Madison Avenue. The saleswoman immediately pulled out a rack of elegant, understated black dresses — the standard uniform for a divorced woman trying to blend in.

Isolde walked past them without slowing.

She moved to the back of the store and lifted a dress from a solitary display. It was a deep, violently vibrant crimson — the color of fresh arterial blood. The color of war.

The gown was an architectural masterpiece. The silk clung to her curves like a second skin, cut with a plunging neckline and a completely backless design — structural, sharp, and quietly dangerous. She ran a single, practiced hand down the side seam, her fingertips reading the tension of the fabric and the precision of the darts.

“Size two,” she told the saleswoman without looking up. “The structural integrity of the bias cut is perfect. It won’t need alterations.”

𝗥e𝖺𝖽 𝗍he 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝖾ѕ𝘵 tr𝘦𝗇𝘥𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗀a𝗅ոо𝘃е𝘭ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗆

The saleswoman blinked. Isolde bought it on the spot.

Back at her apartment, she prepared for battle.

She drew her dark hair into a sleek, severe chignon, exposing the sharp lines of her cheekbones and jaw. She applied a dark, blood-red lipstick that matched the dress exactly. Then she opened her jewelry box and bypassed every diamond Grayson had ever bought her, reaching instead for a heavy vintage ruby necklace that had belonged to her mother. It settled against her collarbones like a warning.

She stepped into the crimson gown and stood before the full-length mirror.

The broken, weeping housewife was gone. The woman staring back was cold, brilliant, and lethal.

Sophia, the name echoed in the quiet of her mind — a silent reclamation of the part of herself she had buried for far too long.

She grabbed her clutch. Tonight, InnoTech meets its maker.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art blazed against the dark New York sky like a beacon. Grayson had spared no expense. The massive stone steps were draped in plush red carpet, flanked by velvet ropes and a swarm of paparazzi.

Isolde’s car pulled to the curb. The driver opened the door.

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