Chapter 367
Chapter 367:
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the crowd. People shifted their weight, stealing quick sideways glances at Isolde.
She kept her face completely blank and stared straight through him.
Daron handed the microphone to Grayson and stepped back into the shadows.
Grayson took the center of the stage. He was undeniably charismatic — the moment he gripped the microphone, his posture shifted into the commanding, authoritative CEO the world knew.
“InnoTech is not just a company,” he said, his deep voice smooth and practiced. “It is a promise. A promise to redefine how humanity interacts with its environment.” He let the silence build, projecting absolute confidence across the room. “We are already in talks with key defense partners. The government recognizes the potential of our modular architecture.”
Isolde leaned slightly toward Arland, keeping her eyes fixed on Grayson’s face. “He’s bluffing,” she said, her voice barely carrying over the ambient noise. “He hasn’t signed the NDA with the Department of Defense yet. The compliance review takes six months.”
Arland nodded slowly. “He’s pumping the stock. He needs the valuation high before the market opens tomorrow.”
On stage, Grayson turned toward Belle and extended his hand. “I want to introduce the visionary architect who made this possible,” he said. “Belle Escobar.”
Belle stepped forward and took his hand. She blinked rapidly, her eyes glistening with practiced, precise tears — the very picture of fragile, overwhelmed brilliance.
“I designed this for the families of tomorrow,” Belle said into the microphone, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion. “I wanted to create homes that heal.”
𝖱e𝗮𝖽 𝘰𝘯 𝗮𝗻у 𝗱𝘦𝘷𝗂𝖼𝘦 о𝗻 𝘨а𝗅𝗻o𝘃𝖾𝘭𝗌.𝖼𝘰𝗆
A violent wave of nausea rolled through Isolde’s stomach.
A flashback hit without warning. She was at the heavy oak desk in the penthouse library — 2:00 AM, six months pregnant with Effie, her lower back aching in a dull, relentless throb. She was drafting the modular stress-load equations, her fingers cramped from hours of holding a pencil.
Isolde gripped her clutch until the metal clasp dug painfully into her palm. The theft of her narrative, of her late-night sacrifices, was a visceral and physical violation.
A staff member handed Grayson a pair of oversized golden scissors. He and Belle closed their hands around the handles together.
They cut the ribbon. Snip.
Confetti cannons mounted to the ceiling detonated, showering the stage in glittering gold paper. The press pool erupted, the rapid-fire clicks of cameras sounding like a swarm of locusts.
A reporter in the front row thrust a microphone upward. “Mr. Lancaster! Is this a joint venture in other ways?”
Another immediately chimed in. “Are we hearing wedding bells soon?”
The room went dead silent. Gold confetti drifted to the floor without a sound.
Every head in the immediate vicinity swiveled to Isolde — the discarded wife — then snapped back to Grayson on the stage.
Belle clung to his arm at once, looking up at him with wide, desperately hopeful eyes.
Grayson froze. The charismatic smile vanished. His jaw tightened as he hesitated, his gaze moving over the reporters’ heads until it found Isolde standing in the shadows.
.
.
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