Chapter 508
Chapter 508:
“The math suggests you are wrong,” she said. “Do the calculation again. Factor in the thermal expansion at Mach 3. Then tell me about safety p>
The engineer looked down. “Yes, ma’am p>
She left the room before anyone could see the exhaustion in her eyes. The focus was real — it was always real — but it was also a shield. The only thing that kept the silence at bay.
Back in her office, her phone buzzed against the mahogany desk. She picked it up.
July 12.
Isolde stared at the date. A small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Tomorrow was her thirty-second birthday. In her previous life, this day had been a quiet marathon of anxiety. She would spend hours cooking the roast Grayson liked, buying herself a small gift to unwrap in front of Effie so the child wouldn’t know her father had forgotten.
The screen lit up with a video call request. Mom.
Isolde declined it immediately. She couldn’t. Not today.
A text followed a moment later. Izzy, happy birthday! I found a flight. I can be there by dinner.
𝘙е𝘤o𝗺𝗆e𝗻d.сo𝗺 𝘁𝗼 𝘆o𝗎𝗿 f𝗋i𝘦n𝘥𝗌
Isolde typed back. No. Do not come. I am working late. I don’t want the Lancasters to see you in the city. It is not safe yet.
The reply came slowly. Okay. Be good to yourself, honey. Don’t let the past eat you.
Isolde set the phone face down on the desk. A phantom ache spread through her chest — a hollowness that no amount of engineering could fill. She pulled a stack of files toward her. She would work until her eyes burned. She would work until she forgot what day it was.
Ten minutes before quitting time, only the faint tap of keyboards lingered in the office. Isolde closed her laptop, her fingers brushing the phone screen as she instinctively opened the pinned chat. The contact name had long since been changed to “Mr. Lancaster p>
The last message was from half a month ago — a cold transfer notification marked “Effie’s child support.” Nothing more.
She let out a quiet breath. Tomorrow was her birthday, and of course Grayson hadn’t remembered.
During their marriage, a bouquet of champagne roses had always arrived at her office on this day, the card written in handwriting as neat and impersonal as print — a secretary’s routine, nothing to do with him. Now that they were divorced, not even that hollow gesture remained.
A self-deprecating smile touched her lips and vanished just as quickly. It was better this way. She no longer needed such cheap warmth.
She packed her things, slung her bag over her shoulder, and took the elevator down. Stepping out of the building, Manhattan was in full swing — streetlights and office windows blurring together into a sprawling, dazzling constellation that lit the streets from below.
Her steps slowed as she passed a cake shop on the corner. In the window sat a white chocolate and berry cake, its cream frosting pale and delicate, a small candle holder glowing softly at its center. She lingered for just a moment, then looked away and walked on.