Chapter 373
Isolde turned and walked past Belle without gloating, without a single word. Her silence was a loud, crushing weight that settled over the other woman like a shroud.
The three of them walked out of the Great Hall together. The heavy double doors closed behind them with a definitive thud.
Inside, Belle was trembling. Her hands shook so badly that wine spilled over her knuckles.
“He knows her!” Belle hissed, her voice a frantic, panicked whisper. “How does he know her?”
Daron McKnight stepped quickly to their side, desperate to smooth over the disaster. He scoffed and waved his hand. “He was probably scolding her. Did you hear him? ‘Five years in a kitchen.’ He was mocking her — calling out her wasted life.”
Belle latched onto the interpretation like a drowning woman grabbing a life preserver. “Yes,” she breathed, her chest heaving as she rationalized the humiliation away. “Yes, that has to be it. He was disappointed in her failure. He took her away to lecture her in private.”
𝖥о𝗅𝘭𝗈𝘄 𝘶𝗌 о𝘯 𝗀𝗮𝘭ոo𝘷𝖾𝗅𝗌.co𝗺
Grayson frowned. He kept his eyes on the closed doors. He had seen Nelson’s face when he looked at Isolde — the profound, unguarded respect in his eyes. It had looked nothing like mockery.
“He called her Sophia,” Grayson said, his voice low and troubled.
Belle rolled her eyes, her manufactured confidence surging back. “It’s her middle name, Gray. Maybe she took a freshman class with him once and failed miserably. Who cares?”
Grayson didn’t answer. He turned the moment over in his mind. The name was a ghost — a footnote on their marriage certificate he had never given a second thought. But the way Nelson said it was different. It wasn’t a name; it was a title. A key to a room in her mind he had never known existed. Belle’s explanation felt too easy, too convenient. A cold knot of unease tightened in his gut. He signaled a waiter, took a fresh glass of scotch, and drank it in one long, burning swallow.
Three blocks away, the atmosphere was entirely different.
They sat in a quiet, brightly lit diner. The air smelled of grease and strong coffee.
Nelson occupied a red vinyl booth, meticulously cutting a cheeseburger into precise quarters with a knife and fork. Isolde sat across from him, her crimson dress looking absurdly glamorous against the cheap formica table.
“So,” Nelson said, chewing thoughtfully. “You fixed the wind shear issue on the X7 prototype.”
“I did,” Isolde confirmed, her voice steady. “But I didn’t get the credit.”
Nelson waved his fork. “Credit is for politicians. Impact is for engineers. You made the machine fly. That is what matters.” He set the fork down and leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. “I have a new project. Satellite synchronization. It’s highly classified.”
Isolde’s eyes widened slightly. Her pulse jumped. “The StarLink initiative?”
Nelson nodded slowly. “I need a lead architect. Someone who doesn’t just see the math — someone who thinks in four dimensions. Someone who can anticipate orbital decay before it happens.” He paused. “I need Sophia.”
.
.