Chapter 171:


    “That’s not radar-absorbent coating,” she said, her voice clear and carrying over the crowd. “That’s standard polyurethane paint. Real RAM coating is matte gray and toxic to the touch.”


    Belle pulled her hand back as if burned. “What? No, it’s —”


    “And,” Isolde continued, stepping forward, “the angle of the vertical stabilizers is wrong.”


    The crowd went quiet.


    “Excuse me?” Grayson said, frowning.


    “The design called for a 32-degree cant,” Isolde said. “This prototype is set at 28 degrees. You probably adjusted it to fit the shipping container.”


    “So what?” Daron scoffed. “It’s four degrees.”


    “At supersonic speeds,” Isolde said, locking eyes with Grayson, “a four-degree variance in the stabilizers creates a yaw instability that will rip the tail off the fusge. If this thing flies, the pilot dies.”


    Silence. Absolute, heavy silence.


    “She’s crazy,” Belleughed nervously. “She’s just jealous. Security?”


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    “She is correct.”


    The voice was gravelly and authoritative. It came from behind Isolde.


    The crowd turned. An older man with wild white hair and a tweed jacket stood there, leaning on a cane and studying the jet with critical eyes.


    Professor Eldridge Nelson. The godfather of modern aeronautics.


    “I reviewed the original schematics for this project years ago,” Nelson said, limping forward. “The cant on those stabilizers is visibly incorrect. A fatal w for high-speed flight.” He turned his gaze to Isolde — taking in the ck clothes, the broken arm, the anonymous badge. His eyes twinkled with pride and recognition.


    “You always did have an eye calibrated to a fraction of an inch, Sophia,” Nelson said, his voice carrying across the hall. “Perhaps you should exin to these people why fundamental engineering matters rather more than ‘the aesthetic of speed.''”


    Isolde smiled. It was the first genuine smile she had worn in weeks.


    “I’m just a consultant,” she said.


    Grayson looked from Nelson to Isolde. He saw the respect in the old man’s eyes. He saw the technical precision in Isolde’s stance. And he finally understood. She hadn’t surrendered her seat. She had simply chosen a different weapon.


    For the first time, a true and deep shiver of fear moved through him. He wasn’t looking at his defeated ex-wife.


    He was looking at the Valkyrie.


    And she had just drawn first blood.


    The buzz in the lounge area of the Javits Center was a physical weight pressing against Isolde’s eardrums. She stood by the small table where she had just dismantled SkyLine’s credibility, her fingers trembling slightly as she gathered the rolled-up schematics.


    It wasn’t fear. It was the adrenaline crash — the aftermath ofbat.


    “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”


    Daron McKnight blocked her path. His face was flushed, a vein throbbing in his temple. He looked like a man whose nine-figuremission had just been vaporized by a woman in a technician’s uniform.


    “So, ‘Sophia’ is back,” Daron hissed, leaning in close. “Big deal. You think pulling one fast trick on Sterling is going to save you? That was my contract, Isolde. My team’s future. You think Grayson will let you get away with this public humiliation?”


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