Chapter 49

POV: Isabella

​The hum of the private jet was a soothing, monotonous sound, a mechanical lullaby that should have calmed my nerves. I sat in the plush leather seat, the cabin smelling of expensive cedar and recycled air. My laptop was open on my lap, the screen glowing with the text of my opening statement for the FTC hearing. I read the words over and over until they lost all meaning, turning into a series of jagged shapes.

​Neutrality. Precision. Data.

​I had to be the person the world saw in that viral clip—the one who was too calm to be lying, too controlled to be broken. If I could maintain that composure under oath, under the harsh lights of a congressional committee, the Sterling Trust would be dismantled by noon. I would be the scalpel that cut the rot out of the Vane legacy.

​"You're doing it again," Thorne said from across the aisle. He was nursing a glass of water, his knuckles white where he gripped the plastic cup.

​"Doing what?" I asked, not looking up from the glowing cursor.

​"You're flatlining, Isabella. You're preparing for the hearing as if it’s a surgical procedure, not the most important moment of your life. You’re cutting yourself out of the equation."

​"It is a procedure," I said, my voice as level as the horizon outside. "Emotion is a variable I can't afford. If I show them a heartbeat, they’ll call it a malfunction. If I show them a tear, they’ll call it a glitch. The only way to win is to be exactly what they’re afraid of."

​I looked out the window, expecting to see the grey, urban sprawl of Northern Virginia or the winding Potomac. Instead, the clouds were a thick, white blanket, and as we dipped through a gap in the vapor, I didn't see the Pentagon or the monuments. I saw water. Miles of dark, churning Atlantic, stretching out toward a hazy, distant shore.

​"Thorne, why are we over the ocean?"

​He frowned, leaning across to look out my window. "Maybe a weather diversion? The coast can be tricky this time of year."

​I stood up, the laptop sliding onto the seat. I walked toward the cockpit door, my heels clicking sharply on the carpeted floor. I knocked, a firm, rapid sound. "Captain? This is Ms. Vane. We seem to be significantly off-course for D.C. Are we on a new flight path?"

​There was no answer. I tried the handle, but it didn't budge. The door was deadlocked from the inside, a heavy, unyielding barrier.

​I felt a cold spike of adrenaline—not a flatline this time, but a sharp, jagged surge of human fear. I ran back to my seat, grabbed my laptop, and pulled up the GPS. The little blue dot that represented our lives was moving steadily east. We weren't heading south to the capital. We were heading toward the tip of Long Island. Toward the Hamptons.

​"Thorne, the pilot isn't responding, and the cockpit is locked," I said, my voice rising.

​He jumped up, the water spilling from his cup onto the expensive floor. "What? This is a Horizon jet! These are my people!"

​"It was a Horizon jet," a voice crackled over the intercom.

​It wasn't the pilot’s deep, professional baritone. It was Eleanor’s voice—cool, maternal, and laced with a terrifying sense of triumph.

​"Hello, Isabella," she said. "I’m so glad you decided to take the flight. It’s much safer than that damp bunker, don't you think? Better air, better view."

​"Eleanor, turn this plane around," I shouted at the ceiling, my hands trembling as I searched for a way to override the communications. "You can't do this. I have a federal summons!"

​"I’m afraid that’s not possible, dear. You see, the Sterling board has appointed me Chairwoman. And as Chairwoman, I have a fiduciary responsibility to 'stabilize' our most valuable assets before they suffer further degradation. You’re going to a private facility, Isabella. For your own safety. For your own preservation."

​"You're kidnapping me?"

​"I'm recovering you," she corrected, her tone as light as if she were discussing a lost piece of jewelry. "And don't bother with the laptop. We’ve jammed the satellite link and the cellular relay. You're offline. Enjoy the rest of the flight. We’ll be on the ground shortly."

​I slumped into my seat, the silence of the cabin returning, heavier than before. I was trapped at thirty thousand feet in a pressurized tube of steel and leather. No phone. No internet. No way to reach the DOJ. No Liam.

​I looked at Thorne. He looked terrified, his face a pale mask of shock. "What do we do? Isabella, we’re heading into a trap. We’re heading right into their territory."

​"We prepare," I said. I felt the ice closing in around my heart again, but this time it wasn't a defense mechanism. It was a weapon.

​"Prepare for what? We're going to a lab! They’re going to lock you in a basement and start the recalibration!"

​"No," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, my eyes scanning the cabin for microphones. "We're going to a gala. Arthur is hosting the 'Trustee Celebration' tonight at the estate. Eleanor wouldn't miss the chance to show off her 'recovered' asset to the people who funded the project. She wants to prove to the board that she has total control."

​I opened my bag and pulled out the small, silver box. I took out the watch Liam had given me. I hadn't put it on since the bridge, but I hadn't been able to throw it away. I traced the inscription on the back with a shaking finger.

​To the woman who makes time stand still.

​I strapped it onto my left wrist, the metal cold against my skin. I needed a reminder that I was more than a percentage or a line of code. I needed to remember that I was a person who had been loved, a person who had a life before the "truth" tried to erase it.

​"Thorne, look at me," I said, leaning in close.

​He looked, his eyes wide and searching.

​"I'm going to tell you the truth about the Medusa core. The part I didn't tell Liam. The part I didn't delete."

​"What? You said the purge was complete. I saw the screen."

​"The deletion was a feint," I whispered, my lips barely moving. "I moved the core—the actual, sentient architecture—to a physical drive months ago. It isn't on the bunker servers. It isn't in the cloud. It’s in the casing of this watch. If they take me, they get the body. They get the biological vessel. But they don't get the mind. They don't get the algorithm that makes the Medusa work. Not unless I give them the key."

​The plane began its steep descent. Through the window, I could see the glittering lights of the Hamptons below us—a wealthy, sprawling trap of manicured lawns and high stone walls. It looked like a graveyard of empires.

​"Isabella, if you reveal the truth about the watch, you destroy your inheritance," Thorne warned, his voice urgent. "The Vane estate is legally tied to the 'biological continuity' of the heir. If you admit the mind is on a drive, that you’re essentially a hardware-assisted consciousness, you're not the heir anymore. You're just a vessel. You lose the Vane name. You lose the billions."

​"I don't care about the inheritance," I said, watching the ground rush up to meet us. "I care about the end of the show. I want to see her face when she realizes she’s holding an empty shell."

​The wheels hit the tarmac with a violent, bone-jarring jar. The engines roared as the pilot engaged the thrusters, the plane slowing down as we taxied toward a private, flood-lit hangar at the far end of the airfield.

​The cabin door hissed open, the cool salt air of the coast rushing in. My heart was thumping against my ribs—a frantic, human rhythm that no monitor could flatten. I stood up, smoothed my suit, and walked toward the stairs.

​The cliffhanger wasn't the landing or the kidnapping. It was the man waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, standing in the glare of the hangar lights.

​It wasn't Arthur. It wasn't a team of doctors in white coats.

​It was Liam.

​But he wasn't there to save me. He wasn't reaching out his hand to pull me away from the ledge. He was wearing a tuxedo, his hair perfectly in place, looking every bit the high-powered CEO. He had a team of Sterling security guards standing behind him, their faces impassive. He looked at me, and his eyes were as cold as the Atlantic.

​"Welcome home, Isabella," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion I recognized. "The Chairwoman is waiting. We have a lot to discuss before the gala begins."

​He didn't move to hug me. He didn't even step closer. He just stood there, a part of the machine, waiting for the asset to be delivered.