Dumping The Ice King His Mini-Tyrant novel Chapter 344

Gwyneth pushed herself upright, propping herself up on one elbow. The muscled man lying beside her reached over and draped a plush robe around her shoulders.

Another man, whose sole task seemed to be holding her phone, continued to keep it pressed against her ear.

Her caramel curls tumbled in loose waves over one bare shoulder. Even without a trace of makeup, Gwyneth’s face held a striking allure—an effortless beauty that drew the eye.

“Impossible!” someone on the line snapped. “Didn’t we already calculate that the model framework she proposed was the optimal choice?”

“Selene’s work…” The voice on the phone hesitated, frustrated. “Her code is too new—too untested. We’re running computations on eight thousand GPUs at once, but we have no idea at which stage to intervene. The output is churning out so much junk data it’s eating up all our memory, and to clean it up—well, deciding which part to clear while keeping the framework functional will take a massive investment. We’re talking a huge team working around the clock.”

Gwyneth let out an impatient sigh. “Speak plain English!”

The caller reined in his technical jargon. “We can’t handle Selene’s framework. By 10 AM today, we’ll have to activate the emergency shutdown and switch to the backup. That’ll cost us a hundred million. But if we stubbornly stick to Selene’s model without her guidance, we’re looking at losses starting at half a billion.”

“No matter what we do, next month, we’ll have nothing to show the Department of Commerce.”

Gwyneth inhaled deeply, her annoyance etched clear across her face.

She’d already cut Selene out of the project—no way she’d invite her back just to oversee the algorithm.

“Bring in the experts from OmniCore Technologies,” she ordered. “They should be able to debug Selene’s framework.”

The man on the phone started to protest, but at the mention of OmniCore’s name, he simply said, “Understood.”

Gwyneth brushed away the hand holding her phone. That single call from her subordinate had soured her entire morning.

Ms. Lockridge, if you insist on burning bridges, you’d better pray you never need to cross back over them.

Selene’s words echoed in her mind.

Gwyneth let out a derisive laugh. This wasn’t her first time playing hardball. She’d always claimed the prize for herself, swallowing entire projects whole. And every time, it had paid off—she’d never once had to go crawling back to anyone.

When Daph took the stage, Clarissa’s shoulders shook so hard she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Daph stood half a head taller than her classmates, sturdy and strong-limbed—her arms and legs like little white bread rolls. Her dancing was more powerful than the other children’s, each spin and leap sending little gusts that made the girls beside her wobble.

In their crisp white tutus, Daph’s broad frame made for a striking contrast with the rest of the class.

Penelope, the lead dancer, was willowy and delicate—seen from the side, she looked almost weightless.

Daph stepped forward, easily lifting Penelope high above her head. Penelope arched her back, body taut as a drawn bow, then split her legs in a soaring leap, arms outstretched like a swan’s wings.

Next to Selene, Monica Fairchild’s mother leaned over and whispered, “That lift was supposed to be done by one of the boys, but none of them could pick Penelope up so easily.”

Selene smiled. “Boys their age usually develop a little slower than the girls.”