Chapter 442
Chapter 442:
“You were a father when you watched Kaiden throw juice on her,” Isolde said. “You were a father when you bought him Legos and ignored her birthday. You don’t get to be a father only when it’s convenient for your conscience p>
Grayson stared at her. His left hand clenched into a tight fist at his side, the knuckles white.
He walked to the door and stopped inches from her. He smelled of rain and expensive cologne.
“SkyLine is squeezing your suppliers,” he said softly. It was a threat, but it sounded like a warning. “If you need money… if you need help… just ask p>
“I would rather beg on the street,” Isolde said.
Grayson held her gaze for a long moment, searching for a crack in the armor. Finding none, he turned and walked out.
𝗥е𝖺𝖽 𝗳𝗿om yоur 𝗽𝘩one o𝘯 ѕ.𝗰𝘰m
“Let’s go, Mrs. Higgins,” he barked.
The entourage left.
Isolde slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood and exhaled a long, shaky breath.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Unknown number.
“Ms. Carson?” A crisp female voice spoke. “This is the office of Professor Eldridge Nelson at Columbia University. The Professor would like to see you regarding your doctoral application. Can you come in today p>
Isolde straightened up. The exhaustion vanished.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” she said.
The office of Professor Eldridge Nelson smelled of chalk dust and ozone — a chaotic cave of knowledge tucked into the corner of the Engineering building. Every surface was buried under blueprints, 3D-printed turbine blades, and towering stacks of academic journals.
Isolde sat in a wooden chair that was intentionally uncomfortable.
Professor Nelson sat behind his desk. He was a small man with wild white hair and glasses so thick they magnified his eyes into judgmental saucers. A legend in aerospace, he had designed propulsion systems for NASA before most people were born.
He flipped through Isolde’s file without looking impressed.
“Isolde Carson,” Nelson grunted. He tossed a tabloid magazine onto the desk, open to a page showing her at a charity gala years ago, hanging on Grayson’s arm. “The trophy wife p>
Isolde didn’t flinch. She sat straighter. “That’s my past. I’m here for my future p>
“I get a lot of bored socialites,” Nelson said, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They want a PhD to put on their dinner party invitations. I don’t have time for tourists p>
He reached for a blueprint on his desk — a schematic of the Phoenix-X7 tail section.
“Tell me,” Nelson said, pointing a stained finger at the diagram. “Why is the vertical stabilizer canted at exactly 17 degrees? The standard is 15. Why the deviation p>
It was a trap. To the untrained eye, it looked like an aesthetic choice. A stylistic flair.
Isolde’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t see lines on paper. She saw airflow.
“It’s not for looks,” she said. “At Mach 2.5, the shockwave from the nose cone creates a high-pressure zone that interferes with rudder authority. By canting it to 17 degrees, you move the surface out of the wake turbulence and generate a vortex lift that counteracts the pitch-down moment p>