Chapter 380
For five years, she had come to this exact building to deliver Grayson’s lunch — standing in the lobby, holding a perfectly insulated bag, waiting for his assistant to grant her a five-minute window of his time.
Today, she was not bringing lunch. She was bringing a leash.
“Ready?” Arland asked, adjusting his lapels.
“I was born ready,” Isolde said, her voice flat and devoid of any tremor.
They walked through the revolving glass doors into the expansive marble lobby. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on Isolde’s arms, but she didn’t break stride.
Two large security guards stood behind the polished mahogany front desk. One of them — a man who had worked there for years — looked up. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Mrs. Lancaster?” he said, reaching for his radio. “I didn’t see you on the schedule.”
Isolde stopped directly in front of the desk and looked him dead in the eye. “It is Ms. Carson,” she said, her tone absolute ice. “And I am here to lead a production meeting with your CEO. I believe Director Caldwell’s office issued a priority directive this morning.”
𝗖𝗁𝗂𝗇e𝘀е 𝗻о𝘃𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝘁𝗋а𝗻𝘴𝗅𝖺t𝗲𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝗀а𝗅𝗻𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘀.с𝗼𝗆
The guard swallowed. He typed frantically on his keyboard, verifying the internal memo rather than consulting a public log. A bright green notification banner flashed on his screen. He printed two visitor badges immediately, his hands trembling slightly.
As Isolde and Arland moved toward the private executive elevators, a wave of sharp, urgent whispers broke out among the reception staff behind them. The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the noise.
The ride to the top floor was completely silent. The floor numbers ticked upward. Arland checked his heavy silver watch.
“He is going to fight you on the timeline,” Arland murmured, eyes fixed on the changing numbers.
“I am counting on it,” Isolde replied.
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The doors opened onto the penthouse level. At the end of the hallway, the thick mahogany doors of the main boardroom stood open.
Director Caldwell was already inside, pacing back and forth across the plush carpet with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Grayson sat at the head of the long, polished conference table. He did not stand when Isolde walked in. His broad shoulders were rigid beneath his dark suit, his jaw locked tight.
Belle sat immediately to his right, aggressively clicking a silver stylus against the tabletop — a repetitive, grating sound.
Isolde walked into the room. The air pressure seemed to drop.
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She did not move toward Grayson. She walked to the exact opposite end of the twenty-foot table, pulled out the chair designated for the client, and sat down. The physical distance between them was a vast, empty canyon of polished wood.
“Director,” Isolde said, nodding to Caldwell. Then she shifted her flat, dead gaze down the full length of the table. “Mr. Lancaster.”
Grayson’s eyes narrowed. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Isolde. You are late.”
Isolde reached into her purse, tapped her phone screen, and set it on the table with a loud clatter. “I am exactly on time. Your watch is running fast — a symptom of anxiety, perhaps.”
Belle slammed her stylus down. “We don’t have time for your games, Isolde.”
.
.