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Chapter 785
Chapter 785:
“I have nothing left to lose,” Grayson stated, his words cutting through the heavy air like scalpels. “But you have a century of pristine, aristocratic reputation to protect.” He paused, letting the silence press down on the room. “If you lay a single finger on Belle, I will publicly and legally recognize Kaiden as my illegitimate son. I will parade him in front of every camera in this city as the true, tainted heir to your precious bloodline. I will personally drag the Lancaster name through the filthiest tabloid mud, and I will watch your pristine empire burn to the ground p>
The threat detonated in the room like a physical bomb.
Alistair’s pupils contracted into tiny black dots. His jaw went slack.
He stared at Grayson, completely horrified. He knew the depth of his grandson’s madness. He knew Grayson wasn’t bluffing. The Lancaster family’s survival depended entirely on the illusion of untarnished nobility. If Grayson legitimized a child born of a mistress, the conservative board of directors would revolt instantly, and the family’s social standing would bleed out within days.
W𝗲𝗲kl𝘆 𝗿е𝘭e𝗮s𝖾𝗌 o𝘯 ѕ.𝖼𝗈𝗆
Grayson did not blink. He reached up and slowly straightened his crooked tie.
He had won the standoff. But the victory felt like swallowing broken glass.
The heavy door handle rattled.
The door swung open. Alistair’s personal assistant slipped into the room, his face pale and slick with nervous sweat. He stepped quickly to Alistair’s side and leaned in, whispering frantically into the old man’s ear.
Alistair’s face changed instantly.
The anger vanished, replaced by a look of profound, urgent shock. He shot one final, piercing glance at Grayson—not anger anymore, but the look of a man who had just realized the building was on fire.
Without another word, Alistair turned and practically ran from the room, his assistant rushing closely behind him.
The door clicked shut.
Grayson was left completely alone in the dark.
He walked slowly to the window and pulled the heavy velvet curtain back by an inch. He looked down at the courtyard below, watching the tiny figures of the elite guests scrambling toward their limousines.
There was no satisfaction in his chest. Only a vast, suffocating emptiness. The metallic tang of his own blood was the only real thing in the room. He had set the world on fire, but the flames gave off no warmth. He was just as cold, just as alone as he had been before. And Isolde—he had chained her to his side with an anchor of public shame, but he knew, with a certainty that hollowed him out completely, that he hadn’t captured her.
He had only ensured she would hate him forever.
The air on the third-floor balcony was biting and sharp.
Isolde stood in the shadows, far from the suffocating heat of the VIP study where Beatrice was interrogating her lawyers. She had used Effie’s need for fresh air as an excuse to slip out of the old woman’s sight.
The glittering skyline of Manhattan stretched out below them—a sea of diamonds against black velvet.
Isolde felt absolutely nothing looking at it.
She reached into her clutch and withdrew a heavy, matte-black military-grade satellite phone. She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The screen glowed a faint tactical green, displaying a secure, encrypted line routing directly through Quantico, Virginia.
She pressed the phone to her ear.
“Speak,” Isolde said softly.
“Isolde, the situation just escalated.” Maxwell Hayes’s voice came through the speaker—crisp, urgent, and completely devoid of panic.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Give it to me p>
