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Chapter 772
Chapter 772:
The seven-year-old boy wore a miniature tuxedo and held a crystal glass of juice. His eyes — so much like Belle’s — found Isolde and locked on her with pure, unadulterated malice.
He walked straight toward her and deliberately slammed his shoulder hard into her hip.
Isolde stumbled. The champagne in her glass sloshed violently, nearly spilling down the front of her silk gown.
Kaiden did not apologize. He let out a loud, arrogant snort, glared at her, and ran off toward a group of elderly relatives.
Isolde went still. The smile vanished from her face. Her eyes turned to chips of black ice as she stared at the boy’s retreating back. She would not tolerate this toxic bloodline infecting her life for one more second.
She turned slightly and looked at Grayson.
𝘑oi𝗇 o𝘂r 𝘤𝗼𝗆𝘮𝘶ո𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝗈𝘯 ѕ.𝘤𝗈𝗺
He had seen everything. He stood motionless, his expression flickering with a dark, complex emotion. A muscle jumped in his jaw. For one brief, unguarded moment, the boy’s casual cruelty mirrored Belle’s entitlement so precisely that a cold, heavy knot of disgust tightened in his gut.
But he said nothing. He simply looked away.
The string quartet in the corner of the ballroom played a soft, classical melody, completely masking the toxic undercurrents swirling through the room.
Isolde stood near a massive Monet painting, her champagne untouched. She was suffocating. The forced smiles, the hushed whispers, the sheer weight of Lancaster hypocrisy—all of it was making her physically nauseous.
A shadow fell over her.
The Lancaster family’s head butler materialized at her side, moving without a sound.
“Madam,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Alistair is waiting for you in the second-floor study p>
Isolde’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
The real trial was about to begin.
She set the champagne down on a silver tray and walked toward the grand staircase, her heels sinking into the thick, hand-woven Persian carpets. She moved down the long, dimly lit corridor and stopped before the heavy, carved mahogany double doors. She pushed them open.
The study reeked of aged bourbon and expensive cigar smoke. The air was hot and oppressive.
Alistair Lancaster sat behind a massive desk in a high-backed leather chair, looking every inch the ancient, ruthless king holding court. He didn’t stand when she entered. He didn’t even smile. He simply raised one hand—the heavy emerald ring on his finger catching the dim light—and pointed to the leather guest chair across from him.
Isolde walked over and sat down. She kept her spine perfectly straight and looked directly into the eyes of the man who had built the empire that was now trying to crush her.
Alistair took a slow drag from his cigar and blew a thick cloud of blue smoke into the air between them.
“Your recent maneuvers were quite impressive, Isolde,” he said, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone. “Swallowing Nexus Core whole. It was ruthless. It was very… Lancaster p>
He was paying her a compliment, but the words turned her stomach. He spoke to her as though she were a prized hunting dog that had just retrieved a fat rabbit.
Isolde did not say thank you.
