Chapter 64

​POV: Isabella

​The silence of the hotel room was a physical weight. It wasn't the quiet of luxury; it was the silence of an empty cathedral, cold and echoing with the things I couldn't say.

​I sat on the edge of the velvet-tufted bed, the court order for my independence clutched in my hand. The paper was wrinkled, the ink of Judge Vance’s signature smudged by the moisture on my palms. It was supposed to be my shield, my declaration of personhood. But as the heat in my chest began to thrum with a sharp, rhythmic sting, the paper felt like a piece of confetti in a hurricane.

​"Where are you, Liam?" I whispered.

​I had called him seven times. Every call went to a voicemail that I knew he would never listen to. I had sent messages to the burner phone, short, desperate pleas that dissolved into the digital ether. There was no response. No "I'm working on it." No "Hold on." Just a void.

​I picked up the remote and turned on the television, the blue light of the screen washing over the room. I needed to hear another human voice, even if it was a stranger's.

​But the voices weren't strange. They were talking about me.

​"The situation at Vane-Sterling continues to deteriorate," the news anchor said, her face a mask of professional concern. "New reports suggest that the 'freedom' granted to Isabella Vane by the District Court may have been a catastrophic error in judgment. Sources inside the Sterling medical wing are reporting a 'critical degradation' of the experimental interface Ms. Vane carries."

​They showed a clip of me from the clinic steps—not the part where I spoke about truth, but a grainy, zoomed-in shot of my hand shaking as I reached for the microphone. They had slowed it down, making the tremor look like a convulsion.

​"Medical experts are warning that without immediate professional intervention, Ms. Vane poses a risk not only to herself but to the stability of the Sterling Trust’s intellectual property," the commentator added. "There are rumors of a 'breakdown' in the hotel room as we speak."

​"I'm not having a breakdown," I snapped at the screen, my voice cracking.

​I stood up, pacing the small space of the room. The heat in my chest flared, a white-hot spike of pain that made me gasp and clutch the bedpost. It wasn't just a malfunction. I could feel the code shifting, the remote sync trying to find a handshake with my nervous system. Eleanor was reaching for me through the air, trying to prove I was "unstable" by making me so.

​A sharp, rhythmic knocking at the door made me jump. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs.

​"Isabella? It’s Chloe. Please, open the door."

​I hesitated. Chloe was my oldest friend, the only person who hadn't looked at me like an experiment for a decade. But she had gone quiet after the audit began. She had sent a text about "conflict of interest."

​"Chloe?" I asked, leaning against the door. "Are you alone?"

​"I'm with someone who can help, Isabella. Please. I saw the news. I know what they’re saying. We have to move before the transport team gets here."

​I unlocked the door, my fingers fumbling with the latch. Chloe stepped inside, but she wasn't alone. She was followed by a man in a charcoal suit carrying a leather satchel and a woman with a professional-grade camera on her shoulder.

​"What is this?" I asked, backing away toward the window. "Chloe, who are these people?"

​"This is David from The Global Review," Chloe said, her voice sounding tight, overly rehearsed. "And his producer. Isabella, they want to give you a chance to tell your side. A real interview. Not a leaked clip or a court transcript. You need to show the world you’re lucid. You need to flip the narrative before the board votes to reclaim you."

​"I can't do an interview," I said, my hand going to my chest as another spark of pain rippled through me. "I... I don't feel right. The core is overheating."

​"That’s exactly why you have to talk!" Chloe said, grabbing my shoulders. Her hands were cold, her grip a little too firm. "If you show them the pain, if you show them that Eleanor is hurting you, you win the public's sympathy. You turn the 'asset' into a victim. It’s the only way to keep the judge on your side."

​"Ms. Vane," David said, stepping forward. He didn't look like a journalist; he looked like an auditor. "We just want to clarify a few things. We have reports that Liam Sterling has been in back-channel negotiations with the oversight committee for the last six hours. Is it true he’s offered to rescind your independence in exchange for his chairmanship?"

​The room felt like it was tilting. The air became thick, tasting of copper. "What?"

​"We have a draft of the agreement," David said, pulling a tablet from his bag. He showed me a document—a legal release with Liam’s name at the top. Proposed Settlement: Voluntary Commitment of Primary Subject. "He... he wouldn't," I whispered. "He told me he wouldn't leave me."

​"He’s gone silent for a reason, Isabella," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper that felt like a needle under my skin. "He’s a Sterling. He’s protecting the house. He’s letting you burn so he can stay in the tower. Don't let him sell you out twice. Tell the truth now. Tell the world he authorized the 2018 interface. Tell them he’s the one who’s really in control."

​I looked at the camera. The lens was a cold, glass eye, unblinking and indifferent. I thought of the "L.S." initials. I thought of the seven missed calls. I thought of the silence that had stretched for twelve hours while I sat in this room waiting for a sign that I was more than a liability.

​"Fine," I said, my voice sounding hollow, like an echo in a cave. "Set it up."

​I sat in the armchair, the lights clicking on and blinding me. I could feel the sweat on my upper lip, the frantic thrumming of the shunt in my chest. I was going to tell the world that Liam Sterling was a traitor. I was going to finish the fracture he had started.

​"We’re live in three... two..." David signaled.

​"Ms. Vane," David began, his voice smooth and predatory. "There are reports that your health is failing. Some say the Medusa core is 'unstable.' How do you respond to the board’s claim that you are no longer capable of self-governance?"

​I opened my mouth to speak, to tell them about the fraud and the forgery. But as I did, a small, red light on my own tablet—the one Liam had given me—began to blink on the nightstand.

​It was the signal jammer. But it wasn't jamming. It was receiving.

​A line of text scrolled across the screen, visible only to me from my seat in the chair.

​ISABELLA. DON'T TALK. THE CAMERA IS A BIOMETRIC SCANNER. THEY ARE RECORDING YOUR NEURAL DEGRADATION IN REAL-TIME TO INVALIDATE YOUR TESTIMONY. CHLOE IS ON THE BOARD’S PAYROLL. STAY SILENT. I AM COMING.

​The message wasn't from a phone. It was sent through the shunt’s own data-link. It was a message from the machine. From Liam.

​I looked at Chloe. She was smiling, but her eyes were fixed on the woman with the camera. The "producer" wasn't framing a shot; she was watching a monitor that showed a heat-map of my brain. They weren't here for an interview. They were here to document my "collapse" for the 6:00 AM hearing.

​"Ms. Vane?" David prompted. "Is it true your husband authorized your surgery in 2018?"

​The heat in my chest was white-hot now, a screaming agony that made me want to howl. But I didn't. I looked into the lens, and for the first time in twelve hours, I felt the cold, sharp clarity of the Vane blood in my veins.

​I didn't answer. I just sat there, staring into the camera, my face a mask of absolute, terrifying stillness.

​"Isabella?" Chloe asked, her smile faltering. "Say something."

​I stayed silent. I stayed so still I could hear the hum of the air conditioner. I watched the red light on the tablet continue to blink. I AM COMING.

​The cliffhanger wasn't my silence; it was the sound from the hallway. A heavy, metallic thud, followed by the sound of the hotel room’s electronic lock being bypassed with a violent, digital shriek.

​The door burst open, but it wasn't Liam. It was a team of men in tactical gear with "Sterling Security" patches on their shoulders.

​"Isabella Vane?" the lead guard asked, ignored the camera crew entirely. "You are in violation of your medical safety protocol. We are here to escort you to the facility."

​I looked at the camera, then at Chloe, then at the guards. The silence had been broken, but the war was just beginning