Chapter 229:

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Corinne POV

On Friday afternoon, Casey and I returned to Synapse Data’s Midtown headquarters for the final production review. Since the deployment of our modular algorithms, Synapse’s live data throughput had surged by nearly four hundred percent, turning what had been a critical system failure into a historic technological success.

Mr. Grant was so thrilled by the turnaround that he insisted on hosting a celebratory dinner for our consulting team at an upscale Midtown steakhouse.

As we wrapped up our files on the open collaboration floor, Dayna Nixon was packing up her desk nearby. Trevor Brooks, eager to flatter the Carlisle Media liaison, called across the aisle. “Dayna, I heard your doctoral program at Columbia was incredibly rigorous. Your academic credentials are truly impressive!”

Dayna smiled modestly, casting a subtle glance toward my workstation. “It took years of formal research. But academic theory isn’t everything. Someone like Corinne, even with just a practical Master’s from MIT, has built strong functional skills. That’s commendable in its own way.”

It was a transparent, passive-aggressive attempt to elevate her Columbia PhD while quietly diminishing my MIT Master’s degree in front of Synapse’s remaining staff.

Casey caught my eye from across the table, rolled his eyes, and silently mouthed, “Pure theater.”

I gave him a faint, amused smile. There was no need to remind Dayna that Dr. Kensington had already dismissed her PhD as obsolete. I simply closed my laptop with a quiet, crisp click and rose smoothly to my feet.

“Casey, let’s head downstairs for dinner,” I said calmly, ignoring Dayna’s performance entirely.

My complete indifference left her petty provocation hanging uselessly in the air as Mr. Grant and Mr. Stone eagerly escorted Casey and me toward the elevators.

When we reached the ground-floor lobby, a sleek black Bentley pulled up outside the glass entrance, drawing immediate attention.

аc𝗍𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝖼о𝘮m𝘂ո𝗂𝘵𝘆 o𝗇 𝗀alո𝘰𝘃𝘦l𝗌.𝗰o𝘮

The rear door opened, and Blake Carlisle stepped out onto the granite driveway. He wore a dark tailored overcoat and carried himself with a commanding, aloof air. He had come either to pick up Dayna or to attend a corporate media meeting.

Blake walked past us toward Dayna, giving Mr. Grant a stiff nod. “Mr. Grant, Dayna will be concluding her observer duties on Carlisle Media’s behalf. I trust her presence was satisfactory.”

Mr. Grant offered a polite, noncommittal acknowledgment.

Casey stiffened beside me, but I touched his sleeve gently. “Let’s head to the restaurant, Casey,” I said softly, my voice level and unbothered. “Irrelevant distractions have no power over our evening.”

We stepped through the revolving glass doors into the cool evening air.

As we made our way toward the avenue, Damon Ross jogged down the granite steps and fell into step beside me for a moment.

“Ms. Sargent, my team finished the final concurrency stress tests an hour ago. Pipeline latency dropped by sixty-four percent. It’s an unprecedented gain,” he said quietly, sincere humility in his grey eyes. “Thank you for fixing my architecture. You’re an exceptional engineer.”

“You built a formidable system, Mr. Ross,” I replied with genuine professional courtesy. “I’m glad our patch helped unlock its full potential.”

Damon nodded respectfully and shook my hand before turning back toward the building.

I watched him go, filled with a clean, grounding sense of professional satisfaction. The evening air was brisk and clear, and as Casey and I walked on toward the restaurant, my heart was completely at peace.

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