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Chapter 743
Chapter 743:
Grayson ignored the tears. He yanked her hard, forcing her back down onto the bench, then pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it against her chest.
“Wipe your face,” he ordered, his voice stripped of any human warmth. “When you get in there, you read the slides exactly as written. Do not improvise a single word p>
Before Belle could compose herself, the heavy blast doors to the main chamber slid open. A military officer with a severe face stepped out holding a clipboard.
“Representatives for InnoTech,” he announced. “Enter the chamber p>
Belle’s entire body flinched violently. She had the look of a prisoner hearing the order to walk to the electric chair.
Grayson gripped her elbow and pulled her upright. “Walk,” he commanded. “And remember — you own that technology p>
𝘑𝘰𝗶𝘯 𝘰𝘂𝘳 co𝗆𝗆𝘶ո𝗂𝘁у 𝘰n ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗺
Under the silent, mocking stares of the greatest engineering minds in the country, Grayson and Belle walked through the doors and stepped directly onto the executioner’s block.
The blast doors sealed shut behind them with a heavy, metallic thud.
Grayson and Belle stood at the base of a massive semi-circular amphitheater. The lighting was harsh and clinical. Directly ahead, elevated on a curved mahogany bench, sat five high-ranking military generals, their faces carved from stone. In the dead center was Secretary Warren — the absolute authority of the Armed Services subcommittee.
Grayson walked quickly to the first row of the gallery and sat down. He scanned the room. Isolde was nowhere to be seen. Her absence did not comfort him — it made the cold dread in his stomach expand rapidly.
Belle was directed to a lone wooden podium at the center of the floor.
She gripped its edges so hard her knuckles turned white. Her knees were visibly shaking. The five generals stared down at her with eyes that held zero empathy.
Secretary Warren lifted a heavy wooden gavel and struck the sound block once. The sharp crack rang through the silent room.
“Representatives of InnoTech,” Warren’s voice boomed through the microphone, cold and authoritative. “You have fifteen minutes to explain the safety parameters of your adaptive fluid dynamics algorithm p>
Belle swallowed a lump of pure terror. Her trembling finger found the button on the podium’s console and pressed it.
The massive LED screen behind her flared to life. The stolen, highly complex code architecture filled the display.
“G-Generals,” Belle stammered. Her voice cracked on the first word. She drew a shaking breath, desperately trying to summon her Silicon Valley persona. “Our team has spent three years developing this revolutionary model p>
She began reading from the script Grayson’s PR team had written for her. Her delivery was robotic and hollow.
The five generals did not take notes. They did not look at the screen. They simply stared at Belle with a shared expression of profound contempt.
In the gallery, Grayson felt cold sweat break out across his forehead. On Wall Street, you could paper over a weak presentation with confidence and buzzwords. In this room, facing men who sent pilots into combat, Belle’s lies were painfully, transparently obvious.
Belle clicked to the next slide — a three-dimensional model of the engine core.
