Chapter 27

Isabella's POV 

The bridge didn't collapse, but my world did.

The explosion was a controlled thermal charge, a wall of white heat that severed the bridge’s support cables like silk ribbons. I remember the sensation of weightlessness before the shadowed figure in the white coat shoved me into the back of a waiting transport. The last thing I saw was the black sedan—Liam’s silhouette pinned against the strobe of emergency lights—vanishing into a cloud of gray debris.

Now, the air is sterile. It smells of ozone and high-grade bleach.

I sit on a stainless-steel stool in a private pathology lab in Midtown. The walls are glass, but they aren't transparent; they are liquid crystal, currently opaque and humming with an anti-surveillance frequency. Across from me, a technician in a lead-lined apron is processing the glass slide I pulled from the sapphire box. Subject 0.

"Verifying the sample now, Ms. Vane," the technician says. His voice is a monotone, filtered through a surgical mask.

"It’s not a sample," I say. My fingers are steady on the edge of the table, though my skin feels cold. "It’s an origin story."

"The biometric markers are... atypical. It’s like looking at a sequence that was never meant to be read by standard hardware."

"Read it anyway."

I look at the sapphire box sitting on the counter. Arthur’s note is tucked inside. She isn’t your mother. The words are a splinter in my mind. If Eleanor is a project, and I am the source, then the woman who pulled me from the car—the woman currently orchestrating the chaos from the shadows—is playing a game where I am both the prize and the sacrifice.

My phone, a burner Liam secured during our flight through Queens, vibrates against the steel.

The screen isn't a message from Liam. It’s a push notification.

BREAKING: THE DESIGNER DAUGHTER — LEAKED IMAGES REVEAL VANE HEIRESS ORIGINS.

I tap the link. The page loads with the speed of a pre-planned viral strike. It’s a gallery.

The first photo is grainy. It’s a lab, much like this one, dated twenty-four years ago. A woman with my eyes—the real Eleanor—is holding a glass vial. She looks exhausted. She looks like she’s holding a miracle.

The second photo is the kill shot.

It’s an ultrasound. But the fetus isn't in a womb. It’s in a containment unit labeled PROJECT MEDUSA: PHASE 1. Beneath the image is a timestamp and a signature: Arthur Vane.

The headline below the photo scrolls in bright, aggressive red: THE VANE EXPERIMENT. ISABELLA VANE: ENGINEERED, NOT BORN?

"Ms. Vane?" the technician asks. "The results are beginning to sequence."

I don't look at him. I look at the screen. The internet is already a wildfire. The hashtags are trending faster than the market can crash: #DesignerDaughter, #TheVaneFraud, #SterlingVaneConspiracy.

The comments are a digital lynch mob.

She’s a product, not a person.

Does Sterling know he married a patent?

Shut down Medusa. Shut down Isabella.

"The photos were released from an internal Vane Global server," I whisper.

"I'm sorry?"

"The timing," I say, my voice sharpening. "Eleanor—the impostor—she’s not just trying to take the core. She’s trying to invalidate my humanity. If the public believes I’m an engineered asset, I lose my legal standing. I lose the trust. I lose the protection of the Sterling name."

"Ms. Vane, you need to see this," the technician says.

He turns the monitor toward me. The DNA sequence is a double helix, but it’s interrupted by strings of synthetic code—nanoscopic markers that glow with a bioluminescent tint. It’s the blood from the slide.

"This isn't just a blueprint," he says. "It’s a kill-switch. The biological markers in this sample are designed to interact with a specific external frequency. If that frequency is broadcast—"

"Resonance," I say. The memory of the car vibrating, the bridge cables snapping, hits me. "The tower was just the test run. The emitter can target the source."

"Ms. Vane, the markers in your current blood—the ones we drew five minutes ago—they match. Exactly."

I look at my arm. The skin looks the same. The veins are blue. The pulse is steady. But inside, I am a receiver. I am a bomb waiting for a signal.

My phone vibrates again. A new alert. This one isn't a news story. It’s a private message.

Unknown: The narrative is set, Isabella. By sunrise, you won't be a person. You'll be evidence. The DOJ is already drafting the seizure warrant for the 'Vane Asset.'

I stand up. The stool screeches against the floor.

"Can you neutralize it?" I ask. "The markers."

The technician shakes his head. "It’s woven into your marrow. To remove it would be to... well, you wouldn't survive the procedure."

"Then I have to control the broadcast."

"How?"

"By taking the microphone."

I grab the sapphire box and the slide. I leave the lab, my heels clicking on the sterile tile. Outside the glass walls, I can see the lights of the city. It’s a grid of data points. A world built on the reputation of the Vane name.

Arthur wants a reconciliation. I can feel it. He’ll want to play the grieving father who didn't know his wife was a scientist. He’ll try to 'save' me from the narrative he helped create.

I reach the lobby. The liquid crystal walls are flickering.

A screen in the corner of the lobby is playing a news loop.

“Reports suggest Isabella Vane-Sterling is currently in hiding. Sources close to Arthur Vane say he is 'devastated' by the revelations of his late wife’s secret experiments and is calling for his daughter to come home for 'emergency medical evaluation.'”

Medical evaluation. Code for containment.

I step out onto the sidewalk. The air is thick with the smell of rain. A black SUV is idling at the curb. Not Vane. Not Sterling.

The window rolls down.

It’s Felix.

"Isabella," he says. "The board is meeting in twenty minutes. Liam is holding the line, but the reputation risk is at a critical threshold. The investors are pulling out."

"Felix, who released the photos?"

"Eleanor. But she used Arthur’s credentials to do it. She’s forcing his hand."

"He’s already offering an apology," I say, showing him the news crawl.

"It’s a trap, Isabella. If you go to him, you’re admitting you’re the asset."

"If I don't go to him, Liam loses the company. And I lose the only chance to find out where the real Eleanor is."

"She’s dead, Isabella. The lighthouse—"

"The slide says otherwise," I say, holding up the sapphire box. "The blood on this slide is fresh. It was taken six months ago."

Felix stares at the box. The color drains from his face.

"She’s alive," I whisper. "And she’s the only one who knows how to turn me off."

The cliffhanger:

My phone chimes one last time. It’s a video file.

I tap play.

It’s a dark room. A woman is strapped to a chair. She looks older, her hair gray, her skin pale. She looks up at the camera.

"Isabella," she says. Her voice is a rasp. "Don't come for me. The blood... it’s not a key. It’s a lure. Arthur isn't the one you should fear."

The video cuts to black.

Behind the woman, in the shadows, I saw the reflection of the Sterling Tower.

The narrative isn't just destroying my reputation. It’s setting the stage for my execution.

"Felix," I say, stepping into the car. "Take me to Liam."