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Chapter 698
Chapter 698:
“Yes,” Isolde said.
She took his arm. They walked past Grayson and Belle without a backward glance.
Grayson stood alone in the hallway and watched the black lace of Isolde’s dress sway as she moved away on the arm of a better, stronger man.
A dark, roaring sound filled his ears. His hands shook. He had lost her — and the realization of it was monstrous.
𝖱оm𝖺𝗇𝘤e ո𝘰v𝘦𝗹s 𝗈𝘯
As he stood there in the silence of the corridor, a cold, psychotic resolve settled over him. He no longer cared about the stocks. He no longer cared about the Gala. He was going to burn Boston to the ground to get her back.
The cold Boston night air hit Isolde the moment she stepped out of the restaurant. She took a deep breath, letting the freezing temperature clear the toxic residue of Grayson Lancaster from her lungs.
Maxwell walked close beside her, his broad shoulders blocking the wind. He opened the heavy door of the armored Cadillac SUV waiting at the curb.
Isolde slid into the back seat. The thick leather was cold against the backs of her legs. Maxwell climbed in after her and pulled the door shut, instantly cutting off the noise of the city and creating a pocket of absolute silence.
The driver pulled away from the curb toward the Back Bay district.
Maxwell reached into the built-in console, poured a glass of room-temperature water from a crystal carafe, and held it out to her.
“I apologize for the physical altercation back there,” Maxwell said, his deep voice filling the quiet cabin. “My reaction was instinctual. I may have overstepped professional boundaries p>
Isolde took the glass. Her fingers brushed against his warm skin. She did not tremble. Her heart rate was completely steady.
“You did not overstep,” Isolde replied, looking directly into his blue eyes. “You provided a barrier in a moment where I felt suffocated. I appreciate it, Maxwell p>
Maxwell held her gaze for a long second, then gave a single, firm nod. He understood the weight behind her words.
Ten minutes later, the Cadillac pulled up to a century-old private club in the Back Bay — a fortress of dark stone and wrought iron, a gathering place for Boston’s oldest money and highest power brokers.
The doorman recognized Maxwell immediately. He bowed slightly and pulled open the heavy oak doors.
They settled into a secluded corner of the VIP lounge. The room smelled of expensive cigars, aged leather, and old wood. The moment she sat down, Isolde opened her briefcase, withdrew her secure tablet, and began verifying the underlying code for the DARPA satellite project. Her mind shifted gears instantly, leaving the emotional wreckage behind and entering the clean, precise world of mathematics.
She did not notice the heavy oak doors swing violently open.