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Chapter 694
Chapter 694:
Isolde glanced at the screen. A flicker of genuine interest cut through the deep exhaustion of the past few days. For the first time in years, the thought of meeting someone new didn’t feel like a threat or a manipulation — it felt like a breath of fresh air. She pushed the feeling aside and rolled her eyes, nudging the phone away.
“I am going to a secure underground bunker to compile code for seventy-two hours,” Isolde said dryly. “There is no romance in fluid dynamics p>
Harper scoffed. She walked to Isolde’s open suitcase, reached into her own tote bag, and produced a slip of black silk and lace — a scandalously cut evening dress. She shoved it into the suitcase and zipped it shut before Isolde could protest.
“Science makes people spontaneous,” Harper stated matter-of-factly. “Be prepared p>
Two hours later, Isolde walked into the VIP lounge at JFK International Airport in a sharp navy blazer and tailored trousers, her heavy briefcase carried with purpose.
She scanned the quiet, luxurious room. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the tarmac, was Maxwell Hayes.
He was even more imposing in person. He wore a charcoal grey suit that stretched across broad shoulders, and turned as she approached. His blue eyes locked onto her, scanning with rapid, analytical precision.
“Ms. Carson,” Maxwell said. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, reached out, and took her hand — grip firm and warm, nothing like the limp corporate handshake she had expected.
“Mr. Hayes,” Isolde replied, meeting his gaze evenly.
𝗧𝗁e 𝗯е𝘴𝘁 r𝗲𝘷ie𝘸𝘀 𝘰𝘯
Maxwell reached down and took the handle of her rolling suitcase in a smooth, effortless gesture.
“The Gulfstream is prepped,” he said, guiding her toward the private boarding tunnel. “I reviewed your preliminary patch notes last night. Your solution for the orbital decay variable is… aggressive p>
Isolde’s eyes lit up. The heavy emotional exhaustion of New York fell away, replaced by the sharp thrill of intellectual engagement.
“It’s not aggressive, it’s efficient,” Isolde countered smoothly as they walked. “If we rely on the standard telemetry models, we lose three seconds of processing time during the atmospheric reentry phase. My patch bypasses the redundant safety checks p>
Maxwell looked down at her. “You are assuming the hardware won’t melt under the thermal load p>
“I ran the thermal simulations,” Isolde fired back, a confident smirk playing at her lips. “The hardware will hold. Barely p>
Maxwell chuckled — a rich, warm sound. He regarded her with a mixture of intense professional respect and undeniable interest.
At that same moment, across the airport in Terminal 4, Grayson Lancaster sat in seat 1A of a commercial first-class cabin. He despised flying commercial, but his private jet was grounded for maintenance.
He turned a glossy invitation to the Boston Tech Summit over in his hands. It was a flimsy excuse for the trip, and he knew it.
His jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He pulled out his phone and opened the GPS tracker he had illegally placed on Isolde’s car after she had cut off all contact. The dot placed her at the private aviation terminal.
Grayson’s stomach churned with toxic, possessive acid.
He was going to Boston. And he was going to drag her back into his orbit, no matter what it took.