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Chapter 782
Chapter 782:
Victoria’s hand hit nothing but empty air. The momentum carried her forward, and her six-inch heel caught violently on the edge of the thick Persian rug. She let out a sharp cry as her ankle twisted. She crashed hard onto the marble floor, her expensive gown tangling around her legs in a humiliating heap.
The room erupted.
The Lancaster women lost all reason. Seeing their matriarch crumpled on the floor ignited something feral in them. The bitter relative and three others surged forward, clawing and shoving, every trace of high-society decorum abandoned.
Isolde was forced to step back. Then back again.
Her shoulder blades hit the cold plaster of the wall. She was completely boxed in with nowhere left to go.
She curled her body over Effie, turning her back to the reaching hands, her jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached.
Near the podium, Grayson saw the mob cornering Isolde. A guttural roar ripped from his throat.
“GET AWAY FROM HER p>
He tried to shove through the crowd, his eyes wild with possessive rage—but two of Alistair’s massive bodyguards materialized from nowhere, seizing his arms and slamming him back against a pillar. He thrashed against their hold like a caged animal, watching helplessly, his face a mask of pure, impotent fury.
𝖸o𝗎𝘳 𝘯ехt 𝘧аv𝗼𝗿i𝘵𝘦 𝗿𝖾a𝗱 i𝗌 𝗈𝗇
“Enough p>
The single word exploded through the banquet hall.
It was not a shout. It was a heavy, gravelly command carrying the absolute, terrifying weight of a dictator.
The chaos died instantly.
The crowd froze. The Lancaster women stopped mid-lunge, their faces draining of color.
Matriarch Beatrice Lancaster stood ten feet away, leaning on her silver-headed cane, flanked by four heavily armed private security contractors dressed in solid black.
She moved forward. Her cane struck the marble with a slow, rhythmic thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The crowd parted in absolute, terrified silence.
She stopped in front of Victoria, who was scrambling to her feet. Beatrice’s ancient, milky eyes swept over Victoria and the relative with a look so cold, so filled with disgust, that both women instantly shrank back like beaten dogs.
Beatrice did not look at Isolde.
She turned her head slightly toward the head of her security detail.
“Clear the room,” she ordered, her voice a dry, raspy whisper that nonetheless commanded absolute obedience. “Confiscate every camera. If a single frame of this footage leaks, Lancaster legal will personally bankrupt their entire bloodline p>
The black-clad guards moved with military efficiency. They shoved reporters backward, seized cameras, and formed an impenetrable wall of muscle between the elite crowd and the doors.
The area around Isolde emptied instantly.
Beatrice finally turned and looked at her.
Her ancient eyes were unreadable, calculating, and completely devoid of warmth.
“Some things,” Beatrice said softly, the words scraping against the silence, “need to be discussed in the study p>
Isolde stared at the old woman.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She understood exactly what this was. Not a rescue—a containment protocol. The Lancaster family was bleeding out, and Beatrice was dragging her into the dark to perform the amputation.
Two of the massive guards stepped up beside Isolde. It was not an escort. It was a threat.
She tightened her arms around Effie and looked across the room.
