Chapter 318
“Volatility precedes growth,” Arland countered. “This is Isolde Carson, our lead strategist.”
Isolde extended her hand. Her grip was firm.
“Mr. Thorne,” she said. “Your paper on quantum logistics was insightful — particularly the section on thermal decay.”
Felix barely touched her fingers. He studied her face, then her suit. Recognition dawned, though not the kind she wanted.
“Ms. Carson,” he said, a smirk touching his lips. “The ex-Mrs. Lancaster, correct?”
Isolde didn’t blink. “That is a past title. I’m here to discuss the X7 thruster efficiency.”
She pulled out her tablet and brought up a complex three-dimensional schematic of the engine core.
“We’ve achieved ninety-eight percent thermal retention,” she said, turning the screen toward him. “Look at the heat dissipation curve.”
𝘉𝘦 p𝗮𝗋t 𝗼𝖿 𝗈𝘶𝗿 𝗰𝗈𝘮m𝘂nit𝗒 оո 𝗀𝖺𝗹𝗇o𝘃𝗲𝗹s.𝗰𝗈𝘮
Felix glanced at the screen for half a second, then looked away, visibly bored.
“Impressive graphics,” he drawled, taking a sip of his drink. “But engineering is a serious business, my dear. It’s not a hobby for divorce settlements.”
Isolde’s smile froze. He wasn’t listening to the data. He was looking at her gender and her marital history.
“Mr. Thorne,” she pressed. “If you look at the numbers—”
“Felix!”
A high, shrill voice cut through the air.
Belle glided over carrying two glasses of champagne, moving directly in front of Isolde and physically blocking her from Felix’s view.
“So good to see you!” Belle gushed.
Felix’s face lit up immediately. “Belle! The woman of the hour.”
Belle kissed his cheek. “Grayson and I were just talking about your vineyard in Napa. How is the Pinot Noir this year?”
Felix turned his back on Isolde completely. “Oh, it’s magnificent. You must come for a tasting.”
Isolde stood there holding the tablet. She was invisible. The data, the breakthrough, the genius — none of it mattered. The boys’ club was closed.
Arland tried to interject. “Felix, the data—”
Belle cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Arland, don’t bore him,” she said, laughing lightly. “This is a party.” She turned her head and fixed Isolde with a slow, cruel smirk. “Maybe you can fetch Felix a refill, Isolde? Since you’re standing right there. You know how he likes it.”
The insult hung in the air. Waitstaff.
Isolde closed the tablet with a sharp snap.
“I am not waitstaff, Belle,” she said quietly. “And I am not interested in wine.”
She looked at Felix’s back one last time.
“Let’s go, Arland,” she said. “He’s not the one.”
They walked away toward the bar. Isolde’s hands were trembling — not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage.
“He’s an idiot,” Arland muttered. “He missed the gold mine.”
“He didn’t see the mine,” Isolde said, her voice tight with bitterness. “He only saw the skirt.”
She leaned against the bar and gripped its edge. “We need someone who cares about the tech, not the social register.”
Across the room, sitting alone in a dark corner, a man in a grey suit had been watching the entire exchange.
.
.