Chapter 84

Chapter 84:

Effie ran into the living room, her footsteps echoing. “Look at the water!”

Isolde walked to the balcony doors. “It’s… incredible.”

“It was an investment property,” Arland said, leaning against the kitchen island. “I never fully furnished it. But the basics are there. Beds, sofa, internet.”

“I’ll pay rent,” Isolde said immediately. “Market rate.”

Arland waved a hand. “We can deduct it from your paycheck if it makes you feel better. Consider it corporate housing.”

They stepped out onto the balcony. The wind whipped Isolde’s hair across her face. Below, the city bustled — tiny yellow cabs weaving through traffic like slow-moving beetles.

“Here,” Arland said, handing her a set of keys. “Welcome home.”

Isolde took them. Her fingers brushed his palm — a simple transfer of metal lasting a fraction of a second.

Down on the street, parked in a nondescript sedan, Daron McKnight adjusted the focus on his telephoto lens.

𝗜ո𝘵e𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝗋о𝗺𝖺nc𝘦 𝘰𝗇 𝘨а𝗅𝗻𝘰𝘃𝘦𝘭s.co𝗆

Click. Click. Click.

Through the lens, the distance flattened. It looked like Arland was holding Isolde’s hand. It looked intimate. It looked like a lovers’ tryst on a balcony.

Daron grinned. “Gotcha.”

He hit send.

Across town, in the SkyLine office, Grayson’s phone buzzed. He opened the image.

He stared at it. The blood roared in his ears. Isolde, smiling. Arland, touching her. In a Tribeca apartment.

“She didn’t just leave,” Grayson whispered, his voice trembling with fury. “She defected. She went to the enemy. She’s using him to come after me.”

He swept his arm across his desk. A stack of files and a crystal paperweight crashed to the floor.

Back in the apartment, Isolde was oblivious.

“We can move in tonight?” she asked.

“Tonight?” Arland raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to get movers?”

“No,” Isolde said. “I have two suitcases. That’s it. I don’t want to spend another night in a hotel.”

By evening, they were settled. Effie was asleep in the second bedroom, bathed in the soft glow of star-shaped string lights Arland had miraculously produced from a closet.

Isolde stood in the living room, looking out at the city. She felt lighter. But there was a nagging weight in her chest.

Her dissertation.

Her original, leather-bound graduate thesis from The Institute. She had to get it back. Tucked within its pages, irreplaceable, were her grandmother’s original onionskin sketches — the only physical link to the genesis of her work, something that could never be digitized. She had left it hidden in the back of the safe in the master bedroom at the Penthouse. In the chaos of leaving after Effie was burned, she had forgotten the one thing that represented the woman she used to be.

It was more than paper. It was her identity.

She pulled out her phone and opened the smart home app. She had been removed as an administrator — she knew that. But she tapped on the “System Diagnostics” feature.

It still loaded.

.

.

.