Chapter 43

POV: Isabella

The viral cycle of a scandal is like a wildfire; you can’t stop it, but you can choose what it burns.

I sat in Marcus Thorne’s media suite, a high-tech nerve center tucked deep within the bunker. The air-conditioning hummed a steady, mechanical tune, a sterile white noise that did nothing to settle the static in my head. On the wall-to-wall monitors, my face was everywhere. My eyes, my jaw, the way I leaned into a camera—it was being dissected by pundits from London to Tokyo. But the narrative was shifting. I wasn't just the "Rogue Heiress" or the "Synthetic Saboteur" anymore.

Two hours ago, I had leaked the archives of the Vane philanthropy projects from 2012—the ones Eleanor had used to test the early, jagged versions of the Medusa stability protocols. I didn't frame them as human trials. I didn't mention the basements or the clinical coldness of the Aethelgard technicians. I framed them as "Legacy Health Initiatives." I uploaded photographs of children in Vane-funded clinics and blueprints for neural-regeneration tech that looked like a gift to humanity rather than a blueprint for a corporate asset.

"You're rebranding," Thorne said, leaning against the doorframe. He held a tablet in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He looked impressed, or perhaps just wary of how quickly I had learned to weaponize my own tragedy. "You're taking the very evidence of your 'synthetic' nature—the proof that your blood isn't quite your own—and turning it into a story of Vane family dedication. It’s brilliant. And terrifying."

"If the world thinks I was built to save lives, they won't let the government dismantle me," I said, my voice flat. I didn't look at him. I was watching a clip from CNBC.

A legal analyst in a sharp grey suit was debating the "ethics of the Vane legacy" with a bioethicist. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read: ISABELLA VANE: MEDICINAL MIRACLE OR CORPORATE FRAUD? The public sentiment was moving from fear to fascination. I wasn't a monster or a glitch in the system; I was a miracle. I was a high-tech marvel that a big, bad tech company—Sterling—was trying to "claim" like a piece of hardware. I had successfully cast myself as the victim of Sterling’s greed, rather than Eleanor’s ambition.

I was winning the PR war. I could see it in the data spikes, the way the hashtags were shifting from #RogueHeiress to #SaveIsabella. But the legal war was just beginning, and it was a war fought with paper, not pixels.

My terminal pinged—a sharp, digital summons that cut through the hum of the room. A formal notification appeared on the center screen, bearing the heavy, gold-embossed seal of the Federal Trade Commission and the Department of Justice.

NOTICE OF MANDATORY TESTIMONY: MATTER OF VANE-STERLING HOLDINGS.

"They want you on the stand," Thorne said, his voice dropping an octave. He walked over to the console, the blue light reflecting in his eyes.

"They want me to confirm the Sterling Trust’s involvement," I said. I scrolled through the digital pages, the legalese blurring into a singular intent. "They want the final proof that Sterling Tech lied to the investors about the origins of their neural patents. They want to know where the money came from in 1994. If I testify, I destroy Liam’s board. I destroy the Sterling legacy for three generations."

"And if you don't?" Thorne asked.

"Then I’m a rogue asset again," I said, leaning back in the ergonomic chair. "If I refuse to cooperate, the DOJ will label me a co-conspirator. I lose the public’s sympathy. I become the person who is hiding the truth because I’m part of the lie. The 'Miracle' narrative dies the second I look like I’m protecting a billionaire’s secrets."

I scrolled through the summons again. It wasn't just a request for information; it was a surgical strike. They had listed the specific documents they wanted me to authenticate—documents that proved the Sterlings had been the architects and the financiers of the Medusa project all along. They had a paper trail that led directly to Thomas Sterling’s private signature.

I thought of Liam. I thought of him standing at the gate in the rain, the water soaking into his suit, his hair plastered to his forehead. I thought of the way he’d looked—not like a CEO, not like the man who had built an empire, but like a man who had lost his way in his own house. He was fighting for a company that was founded on the purchase of my very soul.

"They’ve scheduled the hearing for Thursday," I said, the date hitting me like a physical blow.

"That’s the day of the Sterling Shareholder Meeting," Thorne noted, tapping his tablet. "The day they vote on Liam’s future. The day they decide whether to strip him of his title. If you’re in D.C. testifying against his family’s trust, he doesn't stand a chance. The shareholders will fire him before you even finish your opening statement. You’ll be the one who hands the executioner the axe."

"I know," I said.

The silence in the room grew heavy, a physical weight that made it hard to breathe. This was the cliffhanger I had built for myself. I had spent weeks trying to get Liam to see me, to acknowledge that I wasn't just a variable in his merger. Now, the government was giving me a microphone and a global stage to tell the world exactly who he was—and what his family had done to create the woman he called his wife.

I looked at the camera lens on my laptop, the small green light glowing like a predatory eye. I could see my own reflection in the dark glass. I looked pale. Sharp. I looked cold. I looked exactly like a Vane. I looked like the person Eleanor had spent millions to engineer.

"Tell the regulators I accept," I said, my voice steady. "I’ll testify. Every word. Every dollar. Every lab report."

Thorne gave a single, stiff nod. He didn't offer any comfort, and I didn't want any. He left the room, the door sliding shut with a pressurized hiss.

I stayed in the dark, watching the viral clips of my own 'miraculous' origin. The world loved me now. They loved the story of the heiress who survived the lab and the bridge. They loved the drama of the underdog. But they didn't know the ending. They didn't know that to win this, I had to burn the only person who had ever tried to keep me warm.

And I didn't know if I would survive the fire myself.

The screen flickered, a glitch in the feed that caught my attention. A new message appeared in the corner of my eye, bypassed by a high-level encryption key I didn't recognize. It was from the Sterling Trust’s private legal server—the one Thomas Sterling had used for thirty years.

Isabella, if you testify, you should know that the Ouroboros files contain more than just financial records. They contain the original blueprints for the 'recalibration.' If you reveal the Sterling involvement in the funding, the government will be legally required to seize the source—you—as evidence of an ongoing crime. You won't be a miracle anymore. You'll be a ward of the state. You'll be property again. Just under a different flag.

I stared at the warning. It was a threat, wrapped in the thin, transparent veil of legal advice. It was the system trying to protect itself.

The door to the bunker groaned, the sound of heavy metal shifting on its hinges. The first federal regulator had arrived with the physical copy of the summons in hand. They weren't waiting for a digital signature anymore.

I stood up. I didn't hide. I didn't look at the monitors or the data spikes. I walked toward the door, my heels clicking on the metal floor, the sound echoing through the empty suite like a countdown.

"Let them in," I said to the air. "I'm ready to talk."

I reached the threshold and watched as the heavy door began to swing open. The light from the hallway was bright, blindingly white compared to the blue gloom of the media suite. I didn't know if I was stepping into my freedom or into the final cage, but I knew I couldn't stay in the dark anymore.

The regulator stood there, a man in a dark suit with a briefcase that held the end of the Sterling era. He looked at me with a mixture of professional detachment and morbid curiosity.

"Ms. Vane," he said.

"I'm ready," I replied.

I took the envelope from his hand. The paper was heavy, expensive. It felt like the weight of a life. I didn't look back at the monitors. I didn't look for Liam’s face in the news scroll. I walked past the regulator, toward the extraction point, knowing that by this time Thursday, there would be nothing left to hide.

The world wanted the truth about Isabella Vane. I was going to give it to them, even if the truth was the only thing I had left to lose.