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Chapter 699
Chapter 699:
Grayson Lancaster marched into the room, his face a mask of dark, thunderous fury. Belle Escobar practically jogged behind him, her face drained of color, gripping her designer clutch so tightly her knuckles had gone white. After witnessing Grayson’s humiliation at the restaurant, she was too terrified to breathe. She moved like a ghost at the edges of his rage, silent and invisible.
Grayson had called his Chief Security Officer the moment they reached the street. “I do not care what resources you burn,” he had snarled into the phone. “I want Maxwell Hayes’s itinerary in Boston right now p>
Fifteen minutes later, the Lancaster corporate intelligence network had identified the exact reservation. When the club manager attempted to intercept him at the entrance, explaining that it was a members-only establishment, Grayson had slid a black Centurion card across the mahogany desk without breaking stride.
“I am purchasing a temporary membership for the evening,” Grayson had said, his voice a quiet threat. “If you attempt to stop me again, I will buy this entire building tomorrow and convert it into a parking garage p>
The manager had stepped aside immediately.
Several Boston financial executives near the fireplace recognized Grayson as he entered. They set down their scotch glasses and rose, preparing to greet the New York billionaire.
Grayson walked straight past them without a glance. His eyes were locked on the corner sofa.
He stopped directly in front of Isolde and stood tall, his height casting a shadow across her.
Belle peered out from behind his broad back, her expression caught somewhere between terror and desperate, venomous hope. She said nothing. She knew that speaking would only draw his fire.
Isolde did not look up. She did not blink. She kept her eyes on the glowing screen, her finger moving steadily through lines of complex code, treating both of them like invisible dust.
𝗜𝗻s𝗍𝗮ո𝗍 𝘢𝘤𝗰е𝘴𝘴 o𝗻
The dismissal hit Grayson like a blow to the chest. A hot, violent pressure built behind his eyes.
He reached out and snatched the tablet from Isolde’s hands.
Her fingers closed on empty air. Her jaw tightened instantly. She rose from the sofa, spine snapping straight.
“Give that back to me right now,” Isolde said. Her voice was not loud, but it carried the edge of a razor blade.
Grayson did not comply. Instead, his facial muscles twitched, rearranging themselves into a bizarre, unnatural mask of gentle concern. It was a terrifying shift.
“The wind is harsh off the harbor tonight,” Grayson said, his voice thick with manufactured warmth.
He reached down and picked up the white tuxedo jacket Isolde had draped over the arm of the sofa, then stepped closer and raised it, moving to drape it over her bare shoulders.
The gesture was a textbook manipulation — an assertion of physical ownership disguised as care.
Isolde’s stomach contracted violently. The thought of his hands touching her, of his fabric resting against her skin, made her physically recoil. She took a sharp step backward, dodging his hands as though he were carrying something infectious.
Grayson’s hands froze midair, still holding the jacket. The rejection was so visceral and so absolute that the manufactured warmth shattered. His eyes darkened with frantic humiliation.
“Stop throwing a tantrum, Isolde,” Grayson hissed through clenched teeth. “Put the coat on p>
Belle saw her opening. She stepped forward, adopting the role of the reasonable peacemaker.