Chapter 308
A matte black McLaren swept around the corner of the driveway, its wide tires slicing through the standing water with precise, effortless control. It didn’t drift — it commanded the space, braking hard and stopping exactly one inch from the Bentley’s bumper, blocking Grayson’s path with calculated aggression.
The driver’s side scissor door swung upward into the rain.
Arland Roth leaned out, dark sunglasses on despite the gloom.
“My star player is getting wet,” he called out over the engine noise.
His star player.
The words were possessive, intimate, and deliberately chosen to be misinterpreted. They carried cleanly through the open window of the Bentley.
Isolde looked at Grayson. She offered him a slow, razor-sharp smile.
“My ride is here,” she said.
She stepped out from under the awning and walked toward the McLaren, sliding gracefully into the low passenger seat. Before she pulled the door shut, she looked back at Belle.
𝗥e𝖺𝖽 𝘧𝗿o𝗆 у𝘰𝘶𝗋 𝗽𝘩оne о𝘯 𝘨𝗮𝗅nо𝘷e𝗅𝘴.сom
“And Belle,” Isolde said. “Hold your own dry cleaning.”
She slammed the heavy car door shut.
Arland revved the engine. The McLaren shot forward, its rear tires spinning for a fraction of a second on the wet pavement. A massive wave of dirty puddle water splashed violently across the Bentley’s pristine windshield.
Grayson sat frozen in the driver’s seat as the wipers squeaked their way across the muddy glass.
“Was that… Arland Roth?” he asked, his voice tight with shock.
Belle scowled, brushing a drop of water from her coat.
“He called her his star player?” she sneered. “It’s obvious what that means. He’s not even trying to hide it.”
Grayson watched the McLaren’s red taillights dissolve into the rain. A cold, heavy knot of unease settled in his stomach. The narrative of the helpless, broken ex-wife was beginning to crack.
Inside the warm, leather-scented cabin of the McLaren, Isolde let out a long, heavy exhale and leaned her head back against the racing seat.
“Did you see his face?” Arland asked, laughing as he shifted gears. “Absolutely priceless.”
Isolde rubbed her temples. “He thinks I’m sleeping with you, Arland. That is the only logic his brain can accept. He cannot fathom that I am actually working here.”
“Let him think that,” Arland said, his smile fading into a serious line. “It’s the perfect cover. It protects the ‘Sophia’ identity until we’re ready to drop the bomb at the board meeting.”
Isolde nodded. The sexism of her ex-husband was entirely predictable — and right now, it was highly useful.
The atmosphere inside the exclusive French restaurant Le Coucou was hushed and expensive. Grayson, Belle, and Daron McKnight sat at a corner table, picking at their sea bass.
Daron laughed, swirling his wine glass. “So Roth actually picked her up in a McLaren? The guy has no subtlety.”
Belle took a delicate sip of her sparkling water.
“It’s obvious,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “She’s his new flavor of the month. That’s why she was at the Institute. She was probably auditioning for him in the parking lot.”
Daron snorted. “Makes sense. She has no degree. No skills. How else would she get security clearance into a government lab?”
Grayson gripped his silver fork so tightly his knuckles cracked.
.