Chapter 330
Arland looked at her with something close to awe. He shook his head slowly.
“You played us all.”
“I played myself,” Isolde corrected. “Never again.”
She closed the laptop. “We need government clearance for the X7 materials — titanium alloy, thermal shielding. We can’t buy that on the open market.”
“Director Caldwell is hosting a dinner on Thursday,” Arland said. “At the Pierre.”
Isolde nodded. “I know. Grayson will be there. With Belle.”
She paused. “I’ll be there too. As Carson Dynamics’ consultant.”
“Isolde,” Arland warned. “They will try to humiliate you. It’s a black-tie shark tank.”
Isolde smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. “Let them try. I hold the aces.”
𝗗iѕ𝘤𝗼𝘷е𝗋 𝗵𝗂𝘥𝖽𝖾n g𝗲𝗺𝗌 о𝗇 𝗀a𝗅n𝗼𝗏е𝗹ѕ.𝗰o𝘮
She stood, her knees cracking slightly. “It’s time Sophia’s work made a quiet appearance.” She looked at Arland. “Get me an invitation. A plus-one if you have to.”
“I’m already invited,” Arland said, rising to his feet. “You’re my date.”
“Not date,” Isolde said. “Partner.”
They clinked their soda cans together — a cheap toast to a billion-dollar secret.
Isolde’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out.
A text from Grayson: Dress code is Black Tie. Try not to look cheap. We have investors to impress.
Isolde stared at the screen. She didn’t reply. She simply slid the phone back into her pocket.
“Cheap,” she whispered. “I’ll show you the price of everything.”
The Grand Ballroom at the Pierre Hotel was a galaxy of crystal chandeliers and old money. An orchestra played something soft and indistinct in the far corner.
Isolde stepped out of the hired car.
She was not looking cheap.
She wore a gown of midnight blue velvet that hugged every curve of her body like a second skin — long-sleeved and high-necked at the front, but when she turned, the back plunged dangerously low, exposing the full line of her spine. It was elegant, regal, and severe. Her only jewelry was the pair of vintage diamond studs her grandmother had left her.
Arland offered his arm. He looked quietly dashing in his tuxedo.
“You look like a weapon, Isolde.”
“Good,” she said.
They climbed the grand staircase together. Camera flashes strobed around them.
Inside, Grayson and Belle were already holding court near the ice sculpture. Belle wore a neon pink taffeta dress layered with ruffles — loud, tacky, and desperate for attention. Grayson was mid-laugh at something a banker had said when he glanced up.
He stopped mid-sentence.
He saw Isolde.
He hadn’t seen her dressed like this since their wedding day. No — even then she had been softer. The woman crossing the room toward him was all sharp edges and dark velvet.
Belle caught the direction of his stare. She pinched his arm. Hard.
“Velvet?” she murmured loudly. “In spring? A bit heavy, isn’t it?”
Isolde reached them. She moved with a fluid grace that made Belle’s frenetic energy look childish by comparison.
“Good evening, Grayson. Belle,” she said.
Grayson recovered, clearing his throat. “You made it. I assume Arland paid for the dress.”
.