Chapter 209
For the next hour, the only sound was the furious typing. Isolde wasn’t just writing code. She was weaving a trap — outlining a system so superior, so mathematically precise, that when the Pentagon saw it, they wouldn’t simply cancel InnoTech’s contract. They would beg SkyLine to take over.
Arland watched her profile, illuminated by the glow of the screens. He saw the exhaustion carved beneath her eyes, but he also saw a brilliance that took his breath away. It wasn’t merely respect he felt. It was a profound, aching admiration.
“Rest a little, Isolde,” he said gently, resting a hand on the back of her chair. “You’re still running a fever.”
“I’m not tired,” she replied without stopping. “This feeling — I haven’t felt it in years.”
“What feeling?”
“Control,” she whispered. “The feeling of holding all the cards and crushing an opponent with nothing but intellect.”
On the sofa nearby, Effie had woken up. She sat with her sketchbook on her knees, drawing with crayons, watching the way her mother commanded the room, the way the adults listened to her every word.
“Mommy looks like a superhero,” Effie said suddenly, her small voice cutting through the silence.
Isolde paused. Her hands hovered over the keys. She turned the swivel chair around and looked at her daughter. The hardness in her eyes melted instantly, replaced by a fierce, protective warmth.
“Mommy is a superhero,” Isolde said, smiling.
𝖱e𝖺d 𝘄𝗶tho𝘶𝘁 𝘪𝗻𝘁еrr𝘶𝗽𝘵i𝗼𝘯𝘀 𝗈ո 𝘨a𝗹𝗇𝘰𝗏𝘦𝘭𝗌.𝗰𝗈m
“And you’re fixing the bad red spots?” Effie asked, pointing to the screen where the simulation had shifted from angry red to a stable, pulsing blue.
“We fixed it, baby,” Isolde said. “We fixed everything.”
The work continued deep into the night. By the time Isolde hit the final key, compiling the core code for SkyLine’s bid, the moon was high and the city was silent. She closed the laptop and let out a long, slow breath.
It was done. The trap was set.
Across the city, the atmosphere was very different.
Grayson sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. The room was perfectly silent, perfectly clean, and perfectly cold. He stared at the empty space where Isolde used to sleep — the sound of her breathing, the warmth of her body, the faint scent of vanilla on the pillow. Now the air conditioning hummed into a void.
He couldn’t sleep. The insomnia sat on his chest like a stone.
He picked up his phone, the brightness stinging his tired eyes, and typed a message. His thumb hovered over the send button for a long moment before he pressed it.
Grayson: Are you feeling any better? When are you coming back? The house is too quiet.
Back in the lab, Isolde’s phone buzzed on the desk.
She glanced at the notification. Grayson. She read the preview — When are you coming back? — and her expression didn’t change. No anger. No sadness. Just a hollow, settled indifference.
She swiped left. Delete.
Harper, zipping up her bag, noticed the screen. “You’re not going to reply?”
“No,” Isolde said, setting the phone face-down on the desk.
“Why not?”
Isolde looked at her own reflection in the black mirror of the phone’s screen. “Because dead people don’t text back.”
“Dead people?” Harper asked, confused.
.