Chapter 24

Winter loved ceviche, so she ordered ceviche made with fresh salmon and other seafood. Miranda, unused to raw food, chose pasta and cured fish slices. The pasta was average, but the ingredients were exceptionally fresh.

Noticing Miranda's more modest choices, Winter teased, "This salmon is really tender. Are you sure you don't want to try some? You might enjoy it."

Miranda declined. "You know I can't eat raw food. I'll stick with my pasta."

"All these years, and you haven't changed a bit," Winter chuckled. From their first meeting, Winter had observed that Miranda's preferences, and dislikes, remained consistent.

Winter continued, "Actually, I've neglected the spa for days. My hands are so rough." She sighed. "It's all my dad's fault. He's been pushing me to go on blind dates, and Mom's even helping him trick me! They can easily afford to support me; why go to such lengths? Besides, if a genius like Paul is still single, why should I worry about marriage?"

Miranda's thoughts drifted to Paul upon hearing his name. It had been a while since they'd last properly met. Although they were neighbors, their busy schedules kept them apart. Since their fondue dinner, she'd only seen him once, when she gave him some sandwiches.

Unaware of Miranda's distraction, Winter took a bite of her cured fish and asked, "What happened after you visited Dr. Young with Paul?"

Miranda finished chewing, then recounted the events to Winter. "That's it. Dr. Young reserved a spot for me, so I have to pass the postgraduate admission exams this year."

Winter clapped her hands. "Way to go! I love your confidence! As a reward, I'll take you out this weekend. How does that sound?"

"Where?" Miranda asked.

"You'll find out."

After lunch, Winter drove Miranda back to the library, as Miranda insisted she still had time to study. After completing two sets of exercises, she looked up to see the sun setting. Sitting by the window, she basked in the warm, golden light.

Miranda stretched and began packing her books when the library's closing announcement played. Gathering her bag, she left promptly.

The sunset blazed across the sky, a vibrant display of color, from pale hues to deep, rich tones—a breathtaking oil painting.

Lost in thought about dinner, Miranda arrived at her apartment building. Suddenly, a dark figure emerged from the shadows.

One week earlier, Paul's latest experiment had resulted in a data error. Despite days of repeating the process, the results remained unsatisfactory. Blake Gibson, the middle-aged coordinator (in his 40s) who had overseen the research since Paul took over, was concerned. "The initial results indicated we were on the right track. We followed the procedure exactly. Why the error?"

Paul frowned. "Experiments involve trial and error. The results aren't everything."

"But a data error means a mistake. We've repeated that mistake dozens of times. Isn't a week enough to prove that?"

Blake hesitantly asked, "Why not try a different approach? If we're stuck, it's not wrong to change methods."

Paul's gaze, sharp behind his glasses, fixed on Blake. "Are you worried the experiment will fail? Or do you think Dr. Green's method better suits your profit-focused priorities?"