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Chapter 796
Chapter 796:
The flashbulbs were a predatory storm, the whispers a venomous tide. They swirled not around Isolde but around the small, innocent figure in her arms. Dozens of cameras were aimed at Effie. The cruel murmurs questioned her legitimacy—her very right to exist.
In that instant, the calculated calm Isolde had worn all night shattered, replaced by something far more terrifying. Her eyes, coolly observant a moment ago, became as unforgiving as Siberian ice.
With a movement so swift and decisive it stunned everyone around her, she reached out and snatched a microphone from the frozen hand of a nearby reporter. Her other arm tightened around Effie, a shield against the world.
Silence.
Absolute and immediate. The cacophony of the grand ballroom died as though a switch had been thrown. Every eye fixed on her. Every camera’s red recording light glowed like a hungry demon’s eye. This declaration was going out live, to the entire world.
Across the sea of frozen faces, Grayson and Alistair lurched forward in a desperate, futile attempt to intervene. It was already too late. The wall of reporters and onlookers trapped them where they stood, forcing them to watch, powerless, as the true storm began.
“Since everyone is so interested in our family’s bloodline,” Isolde’s voice cut through the silence—amplified, clear, and utterly devoid of emotion—”I shall make it clear, once and for all p>
She didn’t look at her husband or her father-in-law. Her gaze was fixed on the camera lenses, as though delivering a verdict before a court of global opinion.
“First,” she declared, hammering each word into the air. “My daughter, Effie Carson”—she stressed the surname with brutal intent—”is my one and only child. Her bloodline is pure and unquestionable. Any further slander regarding my daughter’s parentage will be met with a defamation lawsuit of the highest order from the Carson Group p>
𝘛𝘩о𝘂𝘴𝘢𝗻𝗱𝘀 o𝗳 𝗿e𝖺d𝘦r𝘀 𝗈𝘯.с𝗈𝗆
She paused, letting the weight of that threat—the weight of a multi-billion-dollar corporation—settle into the room. The air crackled.
Then she armed the real warhead.
“Second,” her voice dropped, growing even colder. “Regarding Kaiden Lancaster, I am presenting a legally binding document p>
From a folder that appeared as if by magic in Harper’s hands, Isolde withdrew a single sheet of paper—a notarized affidavit. She held it up to the nearest camera, its text a blur to the room but an unmistakable statement to the world.
“This document certifies that Kaiden Lancaster is not my biological son p>
An audible, collective gasp tore through the ballroom, followed by an explosion of stunned murmurs. The rumor had circulated in whispers for years, but to have it confirmed by the woman who had been called his mother—on a global stage—the impact was unparalleled.
Isolde gave the room no time to recover. She launched her final, most devastating strike.
She retracted the document. Her gaze lifted and moved with chilling slowness across the crowd—a weaponized searchlight—before locking with pinpoint precision onto the figure paralyzed at the entrance: Belle Escobar, her face drained to a deathly white.
Isolde said nothing. She didn’t have to.
That single, ice-cold stare said everything.
As if on one command, every camera and every pair of eyes in the room pivoted violently away from Isolde and swarmed toward Belle.
