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Chapter 780
Chapter 780:
A woman in the front row dropped her crystal glass. It shattered against the marble floor, the sharp sound ringing out through the absolute, stunned silence.
“And that goddamn Non-Disclosure Agreement,” Grayson yelled, his voice cracking with a sick, desperate relief, “I am unilaterally voiding it. Right here. Right now p>
Isolde’s eyes widened a fraction.
A legally binding contract could never simply be voided by a verbal declaration. What Grayson had just done was commit a catastrophic, public breach of contract. Nathan Cross had warned her about the ruinous financial penalties tied to that document. By screaming the truth to a room full of cameras, Grayson had effectively committed economic suicide—triggering an avalanche of debt that would strip him of every last cent he owned.
The room exploded.
Dozens of camera flashes erupted simultaneously, turning the ballroom into a blinding strobe of chaos. Reporters who had slipped inside began shouting questions. The elite guests gasped and covered their mouths in pure shock.
𝘋o𝘸n𝗹оa𝖽 𝖯𝖣𝖥𝘀 𝗳𝘳𝘦𝗲 o𝗇
Grayson stood at the podium, his face pale and slick with cold sweat, breathing heavily as the flashes blinded him.
In the eye of the hurricane, Isolde closed her eyes for a single, brief second.
A massive, invisible chain snapped. The crushing weight that had been suffocating her lungs for years simply vanished.
She opened her eyes. They were bright, clear, and fiercely alive. And behind the profound relief blazing in them, a flicker of ice-cold calculation sparked to life. He just handed me the knife, she thought. The breach of contract clause—it will be enough to bury him forever.
She bent down and scooped Effie up into her arms.
Then she turned around. She didn’t look at Grayson. She didn’t look at the billionaires. She simply walked toward the exit. The crowd physically parted for her, stepping back to open a wide path, staring at her in awe.
Her red-soled heels clicked rhythmically against the marble floor.
Just as she reached the heavy brass doors, Isolde paused. She turned her head slightly and looked back over her shoulder—one final, devastating glance at Grayson and the entire rotting, hypocritical world of the Upper East Side.
A look of absolute supremacy.
Then she walked through the doors and into the cool night air, finally, completely free.
The heavy brass doors were inches away.
The freezing night air seeped through the crack, hitting Isolde’s face. It tasted like absolute, intoxicating freedom.
Behind her, Grayson’s explosive declaration still hung in the air. I am unilaterally voiding it. Right here. Right now.
For exactly ten seconds, the massive banquet hall was a vacuum. No music. No breathing. Only the deafening, ringing silence of a ten-billion-dollar empire committing public suicide.
Then the shockwave hit.
It began as a low, collective gasp and erupted instantly into a tsunami of screaming voices. The sound vibrated physically against the crystal chandeliers.
Hundreds of camera lenses pivoted at once. The blinding white flashes turned the room into a chaotic strobe, all aimed directly at the back of Isolde’s head.
Isolde did not turn around.
