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Chapter 770
Chapter 770:
She moved seamlessly into the new AI strategic roadmap. Every technical term she used landed with surgical precision on the investors’ exact pressure points.
On the side monitors, the Nasdaq pre-market numbers flashed green. In the ten minutes Isolde spoke, Carson Group’s stock surged fifteen percent.
The room erupted into deafening applause. The camera flashes went wild.
The label of “Mrs. Lancaster” was completely incinerated. She was the undisputed Queen of Wall Street.
Ten minutes later, Isolde walked back into the quiet green room. Adrenaline still hummed in her veins.
Her private phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up. The caller ID read: Matriarch Beatrice.
Her stomach tightened instantly. She swiped to answer.
“Isolde,” Beatrice’s ancient voice crackled through the speaker. “You will attend the family dinner at the Hamptons estate tonight. Grayson will pick you up. Do not be late p>
The line went dead.
The euphoric high of her victory evaporated instantly. The cold, suffocating reality crashed back down. As long as the divorce NDA remained sealed, she was still chained to the rotting corpse of the Lancaster family.
Isolde stood in the center of her sprawling penthouse, the silence a stark contrast to the roaring applause she had left behind. The city lights glittered below like a galaxy she had just conquered, yet the victory felt distant, muted. She picked up a glass of water, her reflection a cold, powerful stranger in the dark window. Beatrice’s call had been a splash of ice water — a brutal reminder that one war had ended only for another to begin. The suit that had felt like armor now felt like a cage. She walked to her closet and began the ritual of transforming herself back into the one thing she despised: Mrs. Lancaster.
𝖨𝘯𝘵𝗲𝗻𝘀e 𝗋𝘰𝗆𝖺n𝖼e 𝘰𝗻
The sun was setting over Manhattan, casting long, bloody shadows across the pavement.
A black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled silently at the hidden VIP exit of the Nexus Core building.
Isolde walked through the glass doors. She had changed out of her power suit into a pearl-gray silk gown — perfectly tailored, perfectly modest, the exact uniform demanded by the suffocating standards of the Lancaster family. She slipped the invisible mask of the perfect wife over her face.
A bodyguard pulled open the heavy rear door. Isolde slid into the cavernous back seat.
The temperature inside the car was freezing.
Grayson was already seated on the far left side, wearing a flawless custom black tuxedo. He sat perfectly still, his body half-swallowed by the shadows of the interior, radiating a dark, toxic energy that made the air hard to breathe.
The heavy door clicked shut. The sounds of the city vanished instantly.
A wide leather armrest separated them, though it felt less like furniture and more like an uncrossable canyon. The driver pressed a button. The thick, soundproof glass partition glided upward, sealing the back seat into an absolute, claustrophobic silence.
The Rolls-Royce pulled smoothly into the heavy evening traffic, heading toward the Long Island Expressway.
For twenty agonizing minutes, the only sound was the faint hum of tires on asphalt.
Message from Noa: Have a great weekend dear readers. God loves you and Noa wishes you all the best. O)
