Chapter 388
Chapter 388:
She leaned forward, her eyes dark and calculating. “Belle’s architectural schematics require a specific composite resin to bind the titanium joints. To cut costs and rush her prototype, she swapped my specified military-grade polymer for a cheaper, commercially available alternative. That resin has a fatal flaw — under sustained high-frequency vibration, it micro-fractures p>
Her voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “Grayson’s perfect machines will mold it exactly to her specifications. And the material will fail the stress test every single time. He will miss the deadline. And I will bleed his equity dry p>
Arland let out a sudden, loud bark of laughter — the sound of pure, adrenaline-fueled relief. “You are terrifying, Isolde p>
“I am a mother,” Isolde corrected softly, looking back out the window. “I am securing Effie’s future p>
Miles away, in the penthouse boardroom of Lancaster Manufacturing, the atmosphere was toxic.
Belle paced back and forth in frantic, clicking strides, chewing her thumbnail, eyes wide with panic. “She tricked you!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger at the signed contract on the table. “That penalty clause is a death sentence! You can’t risk InnoTech p>
Grayson stood at the window, looking down at the city. He was completely calm — a cold, terrifying calm.
“My factory will not fail, Belle,” he said without turning around. “Which means your design had better be flawless p>
Belle froze mid-step. The air rushed from her lungs. The full, crushing weight of the Lancaster empire had just been placed squarely on her shoulders.
“If the shipment is delayed because of a design flaw in your materials —” Grayson turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto her terrified face. “The penalty falls on you p>
𝖸оu𝘳 𝗻𝖾𝘹t 𝘧𝗮𝘷𝘰r𝗶𝗍𝖾 𝗿е𝘢d 𝗂𝗌 𝗼𝘯
Belle swallowed. Her throat was bone dry. “It won’t fail,” she said.
She was lying. A cold sweat broke out along her spine. She knew she had skipped the final high-frequency stress tests to rush the launch.
Grayson glanced at his heavy silver watch. “I have an investor dinner to host. Fix whatever needs fixing p>
He walked out of the boardroom, leaving Belle entirely alone with her rising, suffocating panic. The first cracks in her stolen empire were beginning to show.
The Plaza Hotel was a monument to old money and quiet power. The charity luncheon occupied its ballroom — neutral ground, crawling with politicians, venture capitalists, and the Manhattan elite.
Isolde wore a tailored, stark white suit. Sharp, unforgiving, projecting absolute authority. She moved through the crowded room with ease, shaking hands and securing soft commitments for future funding rounds.
After an hour of relentless networking, she excused herself and followed the long, carpeted hallway toward the restrooms.
The women’s lounge was a cavern of white marble, gold fixtures, and heavy silence. Isolde walked to the gilded sinks, turned on the brass faucet, and let the cold water run over her wrists, grounding herself. She looked up into the massive mirror.
The heavy oak door behind her opened. Belle stepped in, followed closely by a large, stern-looking woman in a severe black dress who immediately took up a position by the entrance, turning away any other guests who tried to enter.
Isolde did not turn around. She reached calmly for a thick linen towel and began drying her hands, watching Belle’s reflection in the glass.