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Chapter 714
Chapter 714:
Two hours earlier, Grayson’s assistant, Silas, had delivered a dress to Isolde’s apartment — a high-necked, long-sleeved black gown. It was a physical manifestation of Grayson’s desire to suppress her, to force her into the role of the quiet, mourning ex-wife.
Isolde had ordered her security guard to throw the unopened box directly into the alley dumpster.
At exactly eight o’clock, a deafening roar split the air down Park Avenue.
A silver Koenigsegg hypercar tore down the street, its engine growling like a mechanical beast. It aggressively cut off a line of black town cars and slammed to a stop at the very head of the red carpet.
Every camera flash pivoted toward it. The journalists held their breath.
The dihedral doors rotated upward in a smooth, dramatic arc.
A long, flawless leg emerged from the low cabin, the foot encased in a towering, spiked Christian Louboutin heel with its signature red sole.
Isolde rose from the car.
The crowd erupted into a blinding storm of camera flashes. Shouts of her name filled the air.
She was not wearing black.
𝘍𝗶𝗇𝘥 ո𝘰𝗏𝘦𝗅 р𝗗F𝘀 𝗈ո 𝗴а𝘭ոо𝘃е𝘭ѕ.cо𝗺
Isolde wore a custom, hand-stitched haute couture gown from Paris in a shocking, violent shade of crimson. The dress featured a plunging V-neckline that dipped dangerously low and a high slit that bared her leg with every step. The fabric clung to her curves like liquid fire — aggressive, unapologetically sensual, radiating an aura of absolute, lethal dominance.
She wore no Lancaster diamonds. Her only jewelry was a massive, flawless emerald pendant resting against her bare chest.
Isolde ignored the screaming photographers. She walked the red carpet with the slow, predatory grace of a queen inspecting conquered territory. Harper followed a few steps behind, clutching a sleek evening bag.
The moment Isolde crossed the threshold into the grand ballroom, the ambient chatter of five hundred wealthy guests died. It was as if someone had cut the audio on the entire room. People stopped mid-sentence. Champagne glasses hovered halfway to mouths.
Grayson was standing near the center of the room, deep in conversation with a state senator. He noticed the sudden silence and turned his head.
His eyes found Isolde.
A physical shockwave moved through his nervous system. His pupils dilated. His breath caught painfully in his throat. He stared at the crimson fabric, at the exposed skin, at the terrifying confidence radiating from her. A wave of intense, burning jealousy crashed into him alongside a profound and irreversible sense of loss. His fingers tightened around his champagne flute until the crystal groaned.
Near the ice sculpture, Victoria Lancaster saw the dress. Her face contorted with vicious, aristocratic fury.
She marched across the ballroom floor, heels clicking sharply against the marble, intending to put this rebellious woman firmly back in her place. She stopped directly in front of Isolde, blocking her path. Several socialites drifted closer, eager for the drama.
“What is the meaning of this?” Victoria hissed, keeping her voice low but lacing every word with venom. “You look like a cheap escort. You are humiliating the Lancaster name. Go upstairs and change immediately p>
Isolde stopped. She looked down at Victoria. She did not look angry. She looked profoundly bored.