Chapter 2 — Secrets Beneath Laurent Tower

Isolde

The elevator descended with a silent efficiency, its polished steel walls reflecting Isolde’s image back at her in fragmented, distorted glimpses. She stood perfectly still, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, but the faintest flicker of unease darkened her gray eyes. Tonight, the subterranean vault beneath Laurent Tower felt less like a sanctuary and more like a prison—a cold, unyielding reminder of the secrets she carried.

When the doors slid open with a muted chime, Isolde stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Her heels clicked against the black marble floor, each sound sharp and deliberate. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of ancient stone and a whisper of something metallic, like blood spilled long ago. On either side of her, recessed alcoves displayed relics from her past: a Renaissance-era dagger, its blade dulled by time; a locket whose contents she no longer dared to look upon; and a faded map of a city that no longer existed. Each object whispered of lifetimes she had endured—and the betrayals she could never forget.

At the corridor’s end loomed a pair of iron doors, their surface etched with runes older than she could comprehend. The symbols glowed faintly, their light pulsing with an almost imperceptible rhythm, as if alive. Isolde pressed her palm against the center of the etched design. The metal was cold at first, but a subtle warmth spread beneath her hand as the enchantment recognized her touch. The runes flared briefly, their intricate patterns radiating outward, and the doors groaned open, revealing the vault.

The room yawned before her, vast and shadowed, its walls lined with shelves that held books, artifacts, and treasures collected over centuries. At its center stood a pedestal of dark stone, commanding reverence. Upon it rested two objects: the Bloodstone Ring and the Cursed Hourglass. The ring’s crimson gem caught the faint light and refracted it with an almost hypnotic glimmer, while the hourglass shimmered, its dark-red sand flowing with an uneven, restless rhythm.

Isolde approached the pedestal, her movements measured and deliberate. Her gaze lingered on the hourglass. Tonight, the sand tumbled more erratically than she had ever seen, as if caught in unseen turbulence. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the cool glass. The moment she made contact, her vision fractured.

She was back in the grand ballroom of her family’s estate. The air was thick with the mingling scents of wax candles and expensive perfume, the strains of a harpsichord weaving through the laughter of aristocrats resplendent in silks and brocades. Isolde had been one of them once: young, privileged, and untouched by the harshness of the world. Yet even then, a restlessness had stirred within her—a yearning for something beyond the gilded cage of courtly life.

Victor had been there that night. His piercing blue eyes met hers across the room, and for a fleeting moment, the world had narrowed to just the two of them. He had been her equal in ambition, her partner in dreams of building an empire that would transcend mortality. Their bond had felt unbreakable.

But dreams had a way of curdling into nightmares.

The vision shifted violently. She was now in the ritual chamber, the air heavy with the acrid scent of burning herbs. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows on the ancient stone walls. Victor stood before her, his expression a mask of triumph and regret. His voice, low and deliberate, reverberated through the chamber as he uttered the incantation that would seal her fate.

“Forgive me, Isolde,” he murmured. His tone was soft, almost tender, yet it carried the weight of finality. “This is for us. For what we could be.”

She had trusted him. Loved him. And he had turned that love into a weapon. The pain of the transformation had been indescribable, a searing agony that tore through her mortal soul and left something cold and eternal in its place. When she had awoken, Victor was gone. And she was no longer the woman she had been.

The vision shattered, and Isolde found herself back in the vault, her hand trembling as she withdrew it from the hourglass. The sand within swirled violently, crashing against the glass walls as though mirroring her inner turmoil. She clenched her jaw, forcing the storm of emotion back into the depths where it could not betray her.

Her gaze shifted to the Bloodstone Ring, its crimson gem glowing faintly. She picked it up, the metal warm against her skin as she slid it onto her finger. The gemstone pulsed softly, resonating with her heartbeat. It was a reminder of her strength, her resilience. A reminder that she had survived Victor’s betrayal once—and would again.

A sudden, soft ping broke the silence. Isolde turned sharply, retrieving the sleek Glass Tablet from a nearby table. Its holographic interface sprang to life, bathing her face in cold light. Her eyes scanned the notification, and her chest tightened.

Victor D’Armand.

The name was attached to a significant investment in Laurent Technologies. A list of board members who had approved the transaction scrolled beneath it. Among them was Clara Moreno.

Isolde’s grip on the tablet tightened, her knuckles whitening. Clara’s involvement stung more than she had expected. The woman was pragmatic, loyal only to the company’s success—but Isolde had begun to trust her, if only slightly. She exhaled slowly, forcing her hand to relax before the tablet’s fragile frame cracked beneath her grip.

Her mind raced. Victor wasn’t simply buying shares; he was staking a claim, weaving himself into the very fabric of her empire. It was an audacious move, one designed to undermine her from within. She tapped the screen, pulling up data on the transaction. The pattern was clear: Victor had been maneuvering for months, his influence creeping into the company like a shadow lengthening at dusk.

For a moment, Isolde’s thumb hovered over the contact icon for Sebastian Ward. His calm, steady insight had always grounded her during moments of crisis. But she hesitated. No. This was her battle. She could not afford to show weakness—not to Sebastian, not to anyone.

Her thoughts flickered to James Callahan. His arrival had already set the boardroom abuzz with whispers and tension. She recalled the way his gaze had lingered on her, curious and bold, during their first meeting. Victor would see that curiosity as an opportunity, a weakness to exploit. And James, for all his ambition and charm, did not yet understand the dangers circling him.

Isolde’s gaze returned to the hourglass. The sand had slowed once more, its movements hypnotic and deliberate. A faint crack marred the glass—a detail she had not noticed before. Her fingertips brushed over it lightly, a shiver running through her. The hourglass had always been a reflection of her curse, but now it felt like a warning. Or perhaps a promise.

Victor had cost her everything once before. She would not let him do it again.

Isolde straightened, her expression hardening into the mask of control she wore so well. She turned on her heel and left the vault, the iron doors sealing shut behind her with a resounding finality. As she stepped into the elevator, she adjusted the cuffs of her silk blouse with precise, deliberate movements. She was no longer the naive aristocrat Victor had betrayed. She was Isolde Laurent, and she would face him on her terms.

But as the elevator ascended, a single thought lingered, unbidden and unwelcome: What would she be willing to sacrifice this time?

The answer, she suspected, would come sooner than she was prepared for.