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Chapter 617
Chapter 617:
It was a desperate, vicious trap. Belle knew about the NDA. She knew Isolde was legally bound to maintain the illusion of a perfect marriage. She was betting everything on the assumption that Isolde would be forced to agree—forced to validate Belle’s presence rather than risk breaching the contract in front of Beatrice.
The air in the dining room turned to solid ice.
Grayson’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the arms of his chair, ready to intervene, terrified that Isolde had been backed into a legal corner with no way out.
Beatrice slowly lowered her silver spoon and turned her cold, calculating eyes toward Isolde, waiting to see how the younger woman would handle the ambush.
Isolde looked at the hysterical woman standing at the far end of the table.
She did not feel trapped. She felt an overwhelming sense of absurdity.
The corners of her mouth curved upward into a microscopic, terrifyingly cold arc. There was no anger in her eyes—no emotional reaction to the provocation whatsoever. It was the gaze of pure, unadulterated apathy: a predator observing a pathetic insect thrashing blindly in a web.
She picked up her linen napkin, wiped her fingertips with unhurried elegance, and placed it on the table. She turned her body slightly to face Belle directly.
R𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰ո аոy 𝖽𝘦𝘃𝗶c𝖾 𝗈𝗇
“Miss Escobar,” Isolde said, her voice a masterclass in calm, chilling condescension. “Are you suffering from some form of clinical persecution complex p>
Belle blinked, thrown off balance by the clinical tone. “What p>
“You are asking me to confirm that I support your involvement in my child’s life?” Isolde raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Her voice dropped an octave, becoming sharp and authoritative. “Why on earth would I support an incompetent subordinate—a woman who cannot comprehend the basic physics of her own company’s products—interfering in the educational development of a Lancaster heir p>
She had bypassed the trap entirely. She had not mentioned the affair. She had not mentioned the marriage. She had attacked from a vector Belle had no defense against: class and competence.
“As for the nature of your relationship with my husband,” Isolde continued, her eyes hardening into chips of black ice, “whether you are ‘appropriate’ or not is a matter for the Human Resources department to investigate. It is certainly not a topic for my dinner table p>
The absolute, devastating downgrade struck the room like a shockwave.
Isolde had not merely denied Belle the status of a rival. She had reduced her to a problematic employee awaiting a corporate disciplinary review.
Belle’s mouth hung open. The blood drained completely from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed back into her chair, her mind short-circuiting from the sheer magnitude of the insult.
Beatrice let out a low, genuine chuckle—a sound of absolute approval. Isolde had defended the family’s territory flawlessly, without breaking a single rule of high society engagement.
Beatrice picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth, signaling the end of the evening.
“I am fatigued,” she announced, her voice brooking no argument. She looked at Grayson, her eyes hard and unforgiving. “You will personally escort your wife home. And I suggest you spend the drive reflecting on the absolute mess you have made of your life p>