Chapter 394

Chapter 394:

It was a brilliant, vicious joke. The cactus was a physical manifestation of Isolde herself — resilient, dangerous, capable of surviving in the harshest conditions, and absolutely refusing to be touched or controlled.

Belle shoved through the crowd, her face flushed with rage. “How dare she! Security, throw those weeds in the trash p>

Grayson stared at the sharp spines.

He didn’t feel insulted.

He handed the card to Arthur. “Put this in my private office,” he said softly.

He stood there a moment longer, staring at the cactus, working to suppress a smile. She hadn’t come. She was working.

Fifty miles away, in the quiet, darkened offices of Carson Dynamics, Arland watched Isolde set down the secure phone line.

“Did he get the delivery?” Arland asked, grinning.

Isolde didn’t smile. She looked at the signed digital contract on her screen. “I don’t care about the delivery,” she said, her voice cold and absolute. “I care about the signature. The primary supplier’s resin supply is officially locked under our exclusive control p>

ѕ𝗵а𝗿𝗲 у𝘰u𝗿 𝘵𝘩о𝘶𝗀h𝗍𝘀 o𝘯 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝘯о𝗏е𝗅s.сo𝘮

“Keep your sunglasses on p>

The words were sharp and clipped. Isolde sat in the back of the black SUV, staring out the tinted window at the imposing stone facade of the Manhattan Commodities Exchange. It was Monday morning. The air outside was crisp, but inside the vehicle the tension was thick enough to choke on.

Arland sat beside her, adjusting his tie. “You are sure about this? If the board sees you taking a public loss right now, it could trigger a panic p>

“I want a panic,” Isolde replied.

She pushed her dark designer sunglasses firmly up the bridge of her nose. The lenses completely concealed the cold, calculating geometry of her eyes. “I want Belle to feel like a god,” she added, her voice dropping to a flat, dead tone. “Because gods get careless p>

Arland pulled the door handle. The heavy door swung open.

Isolde stepped out onto the concrete. Her black stilettos struck the pavement with a sharp crack. She didn’t look at the sky or the traffic. She walked straight toward the revolving glass doors of the Exchange.

The massive marble lobby was a chaotic hive of shouting brokers and ringing phones. But as Isolde walked in, a distinct cluster of noise near the central elevators caught her attention. Camera shutters clicked rapidly. Harsh, blinding flashes bounced off the polished stone walls.

Belle Escobar stood at the exact center of the media circle, wearing a bright crimson power suit that practically screamed for attention. She was smiling so wide her teeth looked as though they might crack.

She turned her head. Her eyes found Isolde.

The smile twisted into something ugly. Belle pushed past a reporter holding a microphone and walked directly into Isolde’s path.

“Isolde,” Belle said loudly, ensuring every reporter in the lobby could hear her. “Are you here to beg for scraps p>

Isolde stopped. She didn’t remove her sunglasses. She looked at Belle’s crimson suit, then at the reporters eagerly recording the exchange. She adjusted her glasses — a tiny, seemingly nervous twitch of her fingers.

“I am here to do business, Belle,” Isolde said, her voice tight. “Move out of my way p>