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Chapter 718
Chapter 718:
He walked straight toward the main stage at the front of the ballroom, climbed the red velvet steps, and stood before the vintage silver microphone. He placed both hands over the head of his cane and looked out over the silent crowd. He had no script.
“The Lancaster family has dictated the terms of Wall Street for one hundred years,” Alistair said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. “We do not build wealth. We build empires. And empires require absolute stability p>
He paused. His eyes shifted, aiming like a sniper rifle toward the center of the room.
“On a night that marks our century of dominance,” he said, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation, “I require the current mistress of the Lancaster family to stand by my side p>
The words hit the silent room like a physical detonation.
Hundreds of heads turned simultaneously. Eyes darted frantically between Isolde in her aggressive crimson gown and Belle in her conservative white dress. Grayson’s stomach plummeted. He knew his grandfather’s brutal methods. This was not a welcoming gesture toward Belle. This was a lethal, high-stakes test.
He snapped his head around to look at Belle and widened his eyes, silently screaming at her to stay perfectly still.
But Cheryl was standing directly behind her daughter. Her eyes were wide with greed. She dug her sharp fingernails into Belle’s arm and pushed her forward.
𝘗𝘋𝘍𝗌 о𝗇
Belle’s judgment was completely clouded by her own desperate ambition. She lifted the heavy fabric of her white skirt, raised her chin, and took a confident step out of the crowd.
A collective, barely suppressed gasp moved through the ballroom. The media photographers swung their heavy lenses toward the woman attempting to claim the throne.
Grayson saw her move. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. He instinctively shifted his weight forward, raising his hand to grab her arm and pull her back.
Alistair’s eyes snapped to Grayson. The old man’s glare was a physical weight dropping squarely onto his shoulders, nailing his shoes to the floor. Grayson froze, his hand suspended in mid-air.
Isolde stood perfectly still, holding a fresh flute of champagne. A slow, icy smirk touched the corners of her red lips. She watched Belle walk forward with the detached amusement of someone observing a rat run willingly into a trap.
Belle’s high heels clicked loudly against the marble. She pasted her signature sweet, innocent smile across her face. She heard the wealthy wives whispering as she passed them, heard the sharp intakes of breath, and her twisted ego processed their shock and disgust as pure jealousy.
She reached the bottom of the red velvet steps and stopped. She looked up at the terrifying patriarch and tilted her head, trying to appear endearing.
“Grandpa Alistair,” Belle said, her voice dripping with a sickening, sugary sweetness.
The words scraped against the absolute silence of the ballroom like fingernails dragged slowly down a chalkboard.
Alistair tilted his head down. He looked at the woman standing at the foot of his stage. His eyes were completely devoid of human warmth — the gaze of a man examining a piece of rotting garbage stuck to the sole of his shoe.