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Chapter 693
Chapter 693:
“Listen to me very carefully,” Grayson whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intent. “If you ever go near Isolde again — if you ever speak her name in public — I will not protect you. I will personally hand the Sotheby’s wire transfers to the FBI. Do you understand me p>
Victoria gasped for air, her eyes wide with genuine fear. She nodded frantically.
Back in the VIP lounge, the chaos had cleared.
Isolde let out a long, exhausted breath and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Rо𝗺𝖺𝗻𝘤𝗲 aո𝗱 𝗉a𝘀ѕіоn 𝗈𝘯
Julian stepped closer and handed her a fresh bottle of water.
“Do you need me to file a police report for harassment?” he asked quietly. “I can secure a restraining order by the end of the day p>
Isolde took the water and shook her head. “No. Legal paper means nothing to them. Only leverage works p>
She looked up at him. “Thank you, Julian. For everything p>
Julian offered a small, reassuring smile. “I am flying to Boston tomorrow for a medical conference at MIT — the focus is bio-integrated AI, which may interest you given your background. If you need anything while you are there for your DARPA project, call me p>
Down in the underground parking garage, Grayson sat in the back of his Maybach.
His phone buzzed. It was Silas.
Sir, the PR team has scrubbed the internet. The hospital footage is contained.
Grayson didn’t reply. He opened a PDF file Silas had sent him ten minutes earlier — a background check on Dr. Julian Thorne.
Grayson read through it. Double board-certified. Wealthy family background. Impeccable reputation.
His hand curled into a tight fist, crushing the phone against his thigh. The image of Isolde looking up at Julian with that soft, grateful smile burned behind his eyes.
“Drive to the airport,” Grayson ordered his driver. “I am going to Boston p>
The next morning, the city felt different. The brutal confrontation at the hospital had drawn a final, bloody line in the sand. Now there was only the mission in Boston.
Morning sun streamed into Isolde’s Manhattan apartment, illuminating the dust motes drifting through the air. She stood in her bedroom, carefully sliding thick, red-stamped folders into a Faraday-caged briefcase. The files contained the core architecture for DARPA Project 511. As Sophia, she was flying to Boston to execute the final satellite algorithm integration.
Her best friend, Harper Vance, lounged on the unmade bed in a silk robe, holding a steaming mug of coffee and staring at her phone with wide, theatrical eyes.
“Izzy, you have to look at this,” Harper demanded, waving the screen. “I just pulled up the LinkedIn profile of your DARPA liaison. Maxwell Hayes p>
Isolde didn’t look up. She checked the locks on the briefcase with methodical precision. “He is a military contractor, Harper. It’s a professional integration test p>
“He is an alpha male with a brain,” Harper practically swooned. “Isolde, you are a free woman. You just survived a nightmare with Grayson. You are going to a hotel in Boston with this man. Please tell me you are going to let off some steam p>