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Chapter 659
Chapter 659:
Grayson didn’t flinch. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb trembling slightly before pressing the speed dial for his executive fixer.
The line picked up immediately.
“Sir?” the voice answered.
“Activate the offshore shell companies,” Grayson ordered, his voice dropping to a cold, sociopathic whisper. “I want a full, illegal wiretap and financial audit on Harrington Capital’s recent movements. Find out exactly what kind of preliminary agreement Carter Harrington just signed with Isolde and her mother p>
𝗤𝘶𝖺𝗅𝗶𝘵𝗒 𝗍𝗿𝖺𝗇𝘴la𝘁𝘪𝗈ոs оո
He stared at the broken glass scattered across the hearth, his chest still heaving.
“It is likely an NDA leading to a Letter of Intent, which means they still have to clear due diligence,” Grayson continued, his eyes burning with a dark, obsessive intensity. “Find a fatal flaw in Carson Dynamics’ financials or their technical patents. I want the due diligence phase sabotaged and this deal destroyed before the final funding clears. I don’t care what tactics you use p>
He paused, his voice dropping lower still.
“She is not escaping me p>
The top-floor apartment was suffocating. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon sun, casting the long hallways in a gloomy, oppressive twilight.
Inside Kaiden’s massive bedroom, the destruction was absolute.
A custom-built Lego Star Destroyer, worth thousands of dollars, lay shattered across the Persian rug. Books had been torn apart. An iPad lay cracked against the baseboard. Kaiden was face-down on his king-sized bed, screaming into a silk pillow, his throat so raw that his cries had been reduced to wet, pathetic gasps. He refused to eat. He refused to let the maids near him.
Belle Escobar stood in the doorway, her face pale, her makeup completely erased by sweat and stress. She looked at the ruined room and felt no sympathy for the boy — only a crushing, terrifying panic.
She turned away and walked quickly down the hall toward the west wing. She pushed open the heavy oak doors of Grayson’s private study without knocking.
The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of a brass desk lamp. Grayson sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his tie loosened, his collar unbuttoned, a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand while the other slowly scrolled through a thick, red-inked risk assessment report on his tablet.
“Grayson,” Belle said, her voice breathless and frantic. She walked up to the desk and pressed both hands flat against the polished wood. “We need to act immediately. The regional finals are in three weeks. We need to fire the Columbia tutor. I want you to hire the private Ivy League prep team from Boston — the ones who guarantee top-ten placements p>
Grayson did not look up from the tablet. He took a slow sip of his whiskey.
“No,” Grayson said. His voice was flat and devoid of warmth or anger — the voice of a CEO cutting a loss.
Belle’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, no? He scored a forty-two. He was humiliated in front of everyone. We have to fix his scores before the finals, or the board will think your heir is an idiot p>