Chapter 368

Chapter 368:

He stared at her. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

“We are focused on the launch tonight,” Grayson finally said, his voice clipped and tight.

It was a non-denial. In the language of corporate PR, the crowd read it immediately as a yes. A low murmur of excitement rippled through the hall.

Belle glanced down at the floor. A flash of bitter disappointment crossed her face at the absence of a public confirmation, but she buried it quickly, pressing the radiant smile back into place.

Daron stepped forward and grabbed the microphone. “Let’s drink to InnoTech!”

𝖨n𝘴𝗍𝗮𝗇𝘵 𝘢cс𝗲ss 𝗈𝗻 𝗀al𝗇o𝘷е𝗅s.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Waiters fanned out across the hall with fresh trays of champagne, and the suffocating tension dissolved into loud, excited chatter.

Arland leaned toward Isolde’s ear. “He didn’t say yes.”

Isolde watched Grayson descend from the stage, his body language stiff and defensive.

“He didn’t say no,” she replied, her voice cold and hollow. “That’s worse. It’s marketing.”

The moment of suffocating tension shattered as Daron’s booming voice filled the void. Belle plastered a brilliant smile back onto her face and tugged at Grayson’s arm, pulling him down the steps and into a waiting circle of investors. She laughed a little too loudly at someone’s joke, her movements a masterclass in feigned nonchalance. Grayson followed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at Isolde again.

The party surged back to life. A live jazz band filled the corner of the hall with a smooth, upbeat tempo, and the crowd dissolved into its familiar rhythm of clinking glasses and murmured deal-making.

Isolde positioned herself near the long marble bar, working methodically through a group of structural engineers and materials science investors. She kept her back to the center of the room, deliberately staying out of the Lancasters’ orbit.

Then the jazz music stopped mid-note.

Not a planned break — the saxophone player simply lowered his instrument and stared toward the main entrance. A ripple of sharp, urgent whispers started at the doors and swept across the hall like a physical wave.

Isolde turned around.

The dense crowd of billionaires, politicians, and socialites was parting — drawing back like the Red Sea to open a wide, clear path down the center of the hall.

An elderly man was walking slowly along it.

He wore a worn, elbow-patched tweed jacket that looked entirely out of place among the sea of Tom Ford tuxedos. His white hair formed a messy, unkempt halo around his head, and he leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane with every step. Despite his frail appearance, he commanded more absolute respect than anyone else in the room.

It was Professor Eldridge Nelson. The Godfather of Aerodynamics.

Arland, standing beside Isolde, choked on his scotch. He coughed, eyes wide. “Is that Nelson?”

Isolde froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She took a quick, instinctive step backward, sliding behind the thick marble pillar near the bar.

“He shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her breathing going shallow. “He hates social events. He despises corporate galas.”

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