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Chapter 705
Chapter 705:
What Daron did not know was that the moment Isolde had spotted Belle entering the lounge and moving toward that specific corner booth, she had cut Maxwell a sharp look. He had understood instantly. Using his tactical expertise, he had guided Isolde through a service corridor and into a precise acoustic position — behind the thick wall of tropical plants, less than three feet from the booth.
She had heard every word.
Maxwell stood directly behind her, jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked ready to tear through the greenery.
Isolde raised one hand. Wait.
She wore a sharply tailored charcoal suit, her face an emotionless mask of absolute composure. She stepped out from behind the plants.
Daron was mid-laugh when he saw her. The sound died in his throat. His hand jerked, and a long chunk of cigar ash fell directly onto his expensive wool trousers.
Belle let out a startled gasp and scrambled to her feet, but her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. She stumbled, her knee striking the low glass table with a sharp crack.
Maxwell stepped out behind Isolde. He did not look at Belle. He fixed his eyes entirely on Daron and walked forward until his knees were nearly touching the edge of the booth. He looked down at the director with the dispassionate attention of someone who had already calculated every exit.
ѕa𝘃𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝘂𝗋 𝗳av𝗈𝗋𝗶𝘁𝘦 𝘯𝗼𝘷𝖾ls on
“Daron Capital Management,” Maxwell said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. “Your flagship hedge fund is currently carrying a toxic debt ratio of forty-two percent on leveraged commercial real estate p>
Daron’s face went completely white. The color drained from his lips.
“If anything happens to Ms. Carson,” Maxwell continued, leaning forward slightly, “if she trips on a sidewalk, if she receives so much as a paper cut — I will personally release the unredacted financial audits of your three worst-performing funds to the SEC and the Wall Street Journal. Your investors will trigger a bank run by morning. You will be bankrupt before lunch p>
Daron began to sweat. Cold drops appeared at his hairline. The threat was not physical — it was the far more terrifying promise of financial annihilation. His vocal cords refused to cooperate.
Isolde walked slowly around the table and stopped in front of Belle, who was still rubbing her bruised knee.
She looked down at the woman who had stolen her husband and attempted to steal her life.
“You thought you could take my code and become me,” Isolde said, her voice quiet but carrying a devastating, piercing clarity. “But you couldn’t even interpret the garbage decoy code they pulled. You are a pathetic, empty counterfeit p>
The words hit Belle like a slap. Her face burned with agonizing shame.
Isolde did not wait for a response. She turned her back on both of them.
“Let us go, Maxwell,” Isolde said.
They walked out of the lounge together. Several wealthy patrons who had witnessed the exchange pointed and whispered as Daron frantically blotted the burn marks from his trousers.
Daron seized his martini glass. His hand was shaking with pure, unadulterated rage. He slammed it down on the table. The crystal shattered, slicing open his palm. He stared at the blood and then at Isolde’s retreating back.