Chapter 175
Chapter 175:
“Damn it,” Arland hissed. “That’s a second-degree burn. On your good hand p>
“She did it on purpose,” Isolde whispered, pressing her forehead against the mirror. “She knows I need this hand for the test. My right arm is useless p>
Arland reached into his pocket and produced a small foil packet. “Silvadene cream. From the first aid kit in my briefcase. Medical grade — not some useless painkiller for a headache.” He gently applied the gel. Isolde hissed through her teeth.
“Can you do this?” Arland asked, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “The test requires manual override input. Precision typing. With a cast on one arm and a burn on the other p>
Isolde looked at her reflection. She looked pale, tired, and battered. But the fire in her eyes hadn’t gone out. If anything, it was burning hotter.
“Wrap it,” she said. “Tight p>
“Isolde p>
“Wrap it, Arland. Even if my hand falls off, I am not letting that fraud win p>
The prep room was quiet, save for the hum of the server racks. Isolde sat on a metal stool, using her teeth to tighten the bandage around her left hand.
The pain was a constant, throbbing bass line in her head. Every time she flexed her fingers, the skin felt as though it were tearing. Her dexterity was compromised — down by at least thirty percent.
𝖠𝖽𝖽і𝖼𝗍i𝘃𝘦 𝘴𝘁𝗈r𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝗼𝗻
Sterling’s secretary poked her head in. “Ms. Carson? Five minutes. Do you need a moment? Or a postponement?” She had seen the incident at breakfast. She knew.
Isolde shook her head. “No. We start on time p>
She stood up and smoothed her black technician’s shirt. She checked her phone. A text from Arland:
Grayson is in the front row. VIP. Belle is next to him. She has her foot propped up on a chair with an ice pack. Putting on a show.
Isolde let out a dark chuckle. Of course she was.
She walked out into the main hall. The lights were dimmed, focused on the massive screen and the control console set up on the stage. As she climbed the steps, a hush fell over the room.
Grayson watched her. His eyes went immediately to the white bandage on her left hand, stark against her black clothes. He frowned, a flicker of unease twisting in his gut. He remembered the steam rising from the coffee, the angry red mark blooming on her skin before she had even dropped the cup. An uncomfortable seed of doubt took root in his chest.
Belle leaned over to him. “What happened to her hand p>
“You tell me,” Grayson murmured, not taking his eyes off Isolde.
Belle scoffed, adjusting her ice pack. “Who knows? She probably wrapped it for sympathy. You know how she loves to play the victim p>
Grayson looked back at Isolde. The doubt remained, small and irritating.
“Welcome,” Nelson’s voice boomed over the speakers. “The test is simple — a real-time simulation of the Phoenix navigation protocol in a Category 5 storm. Tolerance for error is 0.01 p>