Chapter 18

​Isabella's POV 

​The ink was black. It looked like a stain on the ivory paper.

​I watched the tip of the fountain pen. It hovered a millimeter above the signature line. This was the trigger. If I touched the paper, the trust would exhale ten billion dollars into the world. It would also bind my name to Liam’s in a legal ledger that the press would call a romance and the SEC would call a merger.

​"The witnesses are ready," the lawyer said. He stood in the corner of the Westchester sunroom. He was a shadow in a three-piece suit.

​I looked at Liam.

​He was leaning against the glass wall. His arms were crossed. He looked like a man watching a countdown. Strategic. Distant. He didn't look like a groom. He looked like a closer.

​"Isabella," he said.

​"I’m reading."

​"You've read it three times."

​"The fourth is for the things you didn't say."

​Liam’s expression didn't change. His eyes remained fixed on the document. He was a wall of steel and calculated silence.

​I signed.

​The loop of the 'V' in Vane was sharp. It felt like a cut.

​"Done," the lawyer whispered. He stepped forward, took the papers, and vanished. He moved like a ghost. He was paid to be invisible.

​I stood up. My legs felt like glass.

​"The board is waiting for the confirmation," Liam said. He pulled out his phone. His thumb moved with a rhythmic precision. "The stock is already beginning to stabilize in the overnight markets. The rumor of the union is doing the work before the filing is even public."

​"The rumor."

​"Visibility is currency, Isabella. We need the market to see a unified front."

​"I want the cameras."

​Liam stopped. He looked at me. His brow furrowed just a fraction. A break in the structure.

​"The press is outside the gates," he said. "The security detail can route us through the service exit. You don't have to see them."

​"I want them to see me."

​"It’s a risk."

​"It’s a pivot."

​I walked to the mirror in the hallway. I looked at my reflection. I looked pale. I looked like a woman who had survived a fire and a father. I looked like a victim.

​I hated it.

​I reached up and pulled the pins from my hair. It fell around my shoulders. Dark. Messy. Real. I wiped the smudge of charcoal from under my eye—remnant of a sleepless night—but I didn't hide the scar on my wrist.

​"What are you doing?" Liam asked. He was standing in the doorway.

​"Controlling the narrative."

​"We have a PR team for that."

​"The PR team works for Sterling Tech. I work for me."

​I walked toward the front doors.

​The light was blinding.

​The moment the oak doors opened, the flashbulbs turned the night into noon. It was a physical wall of heat and noise.

​Isabella!

Isabella, over here!

Is the marriage a buyout?

Where is Arthur?

​I didn't flinch. I didn't shield my eyes. I walked down the stone steps.

​Liam was behind me. I could feel his presence. A cold weight. He reached out to take my elbow—the classic gesture of a protector.

​I moved just enough so his hand missed.

​I stepped up to the edge of the velvet rope. A reporter from a major network thrust a microphone toward my face. Her eyes were hungry. She wanted a breakdown. She wanted a tear.

​"Isabella Vane," she shouted over the din. "Your father has filed a kidnapping report. He says Liam Sterling is holding you against your will. Is this marriage a forced merger?"

​I waited.

​The silence stretched. It was an expensive silence. I let the cameras capture the stillness of my face. I let them see the hospital in the background. The ivory cage.

​"My father," I said. My voice was low. The microphones leaned in. "Is a man of many filings."

​"Is it true? Are you a prisoner?"

​I looked directly into the lens of the primary camera. I didn't blink.

​"I am a shareholder," I said. "And today, I am a wife."

​"But the timing, Isabella—the DOJ investigation—"

​"This isn't about the DOJ," I interrupted. My words were sharp. Economical. "This is about the betrayal of a legacy. My father didn't lose a daughter. He lost a vote."

​The noise dropped. The reporters exchanged glances. This wasn't the script. The script was 'Traumatized Heiress Finds Safety in Tech Billionaire’s Arms.'

​I was giving them 'CEO Ousts Dictator.'

​"Are you saying Arthur Vane is unfit?"

​"I am saying the Medusa core belongs to the future. Not to a man who uses his family as collateral."

​I felt Liam move closer. He understood what I was doing now. I was shifting the social class exposure. I wasn't the girl hiding in a Queens walk-up anymore. I was the power in the room.

​"One more question!" a man yelled. "The photos from yesterday. You looked... broken."

​I looked at the man. I remembered the camera in the alley. The lens in the smoke detector.

​"I was being hunted," I said. "By the man who raised me. If you want to know who took those photos, ask my father’s head of security."

​I turned.

​"Isabella—" Liam started.

​I didn't stop. I walked back toward the SUV.

​The crowd wasn't screaming anymore. They were murmuring. The energy had shifted. The aggression was gone, replaced by a strange, heavy fascination.

​I got into the back of the car. The leather was cold.

​Liam slid in next to me. He closed the door, cutting off the noise. The interior of the car was a vault.

​"That was... unexpected," he said.

​"It was necessary."

​"You made him the villain. Publicly."

​"He made himself the villain. I just provided the lighting."

​I looked out the tinted window. We were moving. The gates of the facility opened, and the SUV rolled through the sea of reporters.

​They weren't banging on the glass this time. They were stepping back. Some of them were lowering their cameras.

​I looked at my phone.

​The feed was already updating.

​#VaneBetrayal was trending.

#IsabellaSpeaks

​I scrolled through the comments.

​She doesn't look like she's being kidnapped. She looks like she's taking over.

Look at her eyes. She's terrifying. I love her.

Arthur Vane is a monster. Who tracks their own kid?

​"The sentiment analysis is flipping," Liam said. He was looking at his own tablet. He sounded surprised. "The sympathy isn't for the 'lost girl.' It’s for the betrayed partner. You’ve reframed the marriage as a defensive pact."

​"It is a defensive pact."

​"Yes. But the world usually prefers a fairy tale."

​"Fairy tales are for people who don't have ten billion dollars."

​I leaned my head back against the seat. I was exhausted. My bones felt like lead. But the fire in my chest was still there. A small, blue flame.

​"We need to prepare for the board meeting at midnight," Liam said. "Now that the public is on your side, Henderson will be hesitant to move against you. He’s a coward. He follows the wind."

​"And the wind is blowing away from my father."

​"For now."

​Liam reached across the seat. He didn't touch my hand this time. He touched the folder containing the signed documents.

​"We did it, Isabella."

​"We signed a contract, Liam. We haven't done anything yet."

​He looked at me. For a second, the strategist was gone. There was something else in his eyes. Something human. Something that didn't belong in a merger.

​"You're very good at this," he whispered.

​"I had a good teacher."

​I closed my eyes.

​I thought about the 'Heir Apparent' clause. I thought about the way Liam had avoided my eyes when I asked about the addendums.

​I didn't tell him I knew.

​I didn't tell him that I had seen the full document on my mother’s server before I ever arrived at the penthouse.

​He thought he had built a cage.

​He didn't realize I had already picked the lock.

​The car slowed.

​We were back in the city. The lights of the Sterling Tower loomed above us like a needle.

​"There's a crowd at the entrance," the driver said.

​I looked out the window.

​There were hundreds of people. Not just reporters. Ordinary people. Holding signs.

​I leaned closer to the glass.

​I expected anger. I expected the 'Slumming Heiress' insults from the morning.

​But as the car pulled up to the curb, a girl in the front row—no older than twenty—held up a piece of cardboard.

​It wasn't a slur.

​It was a photo.

​It was a printout of the picture from the bakery. The one where I looked tired. The one where I looked human.

​Underneath it, in thick red marker, were three words:

​NOT FOR SALE.

​A roar went up from the crowd. It wasn't a taunt. It was a cheer.

​"They’re on your side," Liam said. His voice was hushed.

​I looked at the girl. I looked at the signs.

​TELL THE TRUTH ISABELLA.

DUMP ARTHUR.

THE SAPPHIRE IS HERS.

​The doors opened.

​I stepped out into the air.

​The cheering grew louder. It was a wave of sound that hit me in the chest. It was the first time in my life I hadn't been afraid of a crowd.

​I looked at the cameras. I looked at the girl with the sign.

​I smiled.

​It wasn't a PR smile. It was a warning.

​Cliffhanger:

​My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text message.

​Private Number.

​I opened it as I stepped into the lobby of the tower.

​It wasn't from Julian. It wasn't from my mother.

​It was a video file.

​I pressed play.

​The video was graining. It was a security feed from the Sterling boardroom, dated three hours ago.

​I saw Liam. I saw Henderson.

​They were shaking hands.

​“She’ll sign,” Liam’s voice said on the recording. He sounded cold. Perfectly analytical. “And once she does, the trust becomes our collateral. She’ll be the face of the recovery, but the keys stay with us. Just like we planned.”

​I stopped walking.

​Liam turned around. "Isabella? We have to go. The board—"

​I looked at him.

​The cheering was still happening outside the glass doors. The world was falling in love with me.

​And I was standing next to the man who had just sold me for parts.

​I didn't say a word. I just looked at the elevator doors.

​"Isabella?" Liam reached for my hand.

​I pulled away.

​"Let's go to work, Liam," I said.

​My voice was ice.

​I didn't show him the video.

​I didn't show him that the narrative I was controlling was no longer about my father.

​It was about him.