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Chapter 700
Chapter 700:
“Isolde, please don’t be so ungrateful,” Belle said softly. “Grayson canceled a very important conference call just to come check on you. He cares about you p>
Isolde let out a short, harsh laugh — a sound entirely devoid of humor.
She looked Grayson dead in the eyes.
“Are you suffering from late-stage schizophrenia, Grayson?” Isolde asked. Her voice rang out clearly in the quiet lounge.
The executives by the fireplace stopped pretending to talk. They turned their heads.
“You spend every waking moment in New York trying to destroy my family and cut off my resources,” Isolde stated, her logic cold and precise. “And now you track me to Boston to play the devoted husband offering me a coat? It is absolutely sickening p>
Grayson’s face turned the color of ash. The public exposure of his hypocrisy paralyzed his vocal cords.
Maxwell stood. He did not rush. He moved with the controlled, measured grace of someone entirely comfortable with physical confrontation. He reached out and pulled the tablet from Grayson’s hand with enough force that Grayson stumbled forward half a step. Maxwell handed it back to Isolde, then turned his blue eyes onto Grayson with the expression of a man assessing a lost, unstable stranger.
“This is a private club, Mr. Lancaster,” Maxwell said, his voice a low, vibrating thread of menace. “It is not your personal psychiatric clinic. Control yourself p>
Grayson’s hands curled into fists. His knuckles whitened. He glared at Maxwell, chest heaving.
“Stay out of Lancaster family business,” Grayson warned, his voice shaking with suppressed violence.
𝗗𝗼n’𝘁 𝘮𝗂𝘴ѕ n𝖾w 𝘳e𝘭еа𝘀е𝘀 o𝗇.с𝗈𝗺
Maxwell let out a slow, dismissive scoff.
“If this is how you conduct family business,” Maxwell replied coolly, “I highly suggest you book an appointment at the nearest Boston divorce court. You are embarrassing yourself p>
Isolde had no desire to breathe the same air as Grayson for one more second. She picked up her jacket herself.
“Let us go, Maxwell,” Isolde said. “We will review the data in the suite. The air in here is contaminated p>
She walked toward the private elevator bank. Maxwell followed immediately, positioning himself as an impenetrable rear guard.
Belle reached out and tried to take Grayson’s arm.
“Gray, don’t listen to them,” Belle whispered.
Grayson wrenched his arm away from her without so much as a glance. He stared at the heavy oak doors closing behind Isolde and Maxwell, his breathing ragged and uneven.
A dark, obsessive vow solidified in his mind. He was going to dig into Maxwell Hayes. He was going to find the man’s weakness, and he was going to make him bleed.
The antique clock on the wall of the Four Seasons penthouse struck two in the morning.
Isolde sat at the massive mahogany desk in the center of the living room. The main lights were off. The only illumination came from the glowing blue screen of her military-grade encrypted laptop and the neon city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.