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Chapter 683
Chapter 683:
“Are you serious?” Her voice trembled, losing its sweet veneer entirely. “You are going to let that woman — a woman you threw out of your house — continue to parade around as the Lancaster matriarch p>
Grayson’s head snapped up. His eyes turned to chips of black ice.
“Watch your mouth, Belle,” he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.
The words struck her like a physical slap. All color drained from her cheeks.
The two PR managers instantly stopped breathing. They fixed their gaze on the floor, terrified by the sudden, violent shift in the room’s atmosphere.
Belle bit down hard on her lower lip. Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to look small, tried to project a fragile vulnerability to trigger his protective instincts.
Grayson felt nothing but profound, exhausting irritation. He reached up and yanked at his silk tie, loosening it aggressively. Then he pressed the intercom button on his console.
“Silas,” Grayson said. “Come in here and escort Ms. Escobar and her team out p>
The office doors opened immediately. Silas stepped inside, extending his arm toward the hallway. His eyes held a microscopic gleam of contempt as they passed over Belle.
𝘞𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝗮𝘵е е𝘷𝗲𝘳у 𝘸е𝘦𝘬 𝘰𝗻
“Right this way, Ms. Escobar,” Silas said.
Belle knew she had pushed too far. She swallowed the burning bile in her throat, snatched the gold-embossed binder from the desk with white-knuckled hands, turned on her stilettos, and marched out of the office. The heavy doors clicked shut behind her.
Grayson pressed his fingers to his temples. A sharp headache pulsed behind his eyes. He felt a sickening loss of control — everything slipping through his fingers at once.
He picked up his private cell phone, opened his contacts, and stared at Isolde’s name. His thumb hovered over the screen. He needed to establish dominance. He needed to call her, to dictate the terms of the Gala, to remind her that he was still the one granting her this platform.
He pressed dial and brought the phone to his ear.
The line rang three times.
Then a sterile, automated voice filled his ear. The number you have reached is not accepting calls at this time.
Grayson froze. His heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t voicemail. She had activated the block feature. She had sent him into a digital void as casually as one silences a telemarketer.
A wave of hot, blinding fury rushed into his bloodstream. His chest heaved.
“Damn it!” Grayson roared.
He slammed the phone down onto the mahogany desk. The screen cracked against the hard wood. He could not process the absolute finality of it. The woman whose life he had once controlled entirely — down to her very breath — had not simply left his orbit. She had erased it. She was treating him with the dismissive, clinical contempt one reserves for a nuisance.
Miles away, in her quiet downtown apartment, Isolde sat at her kitchen island. A cup of black coffee rested untouched beside her laptop.
She looked at her phone screen. A small notification appeared: Blocked Call Attempt — Grayson Lancaster.
Isolde did not feel a single ounce of sadness. Her stomach did not flutter.