Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus)

Chapter 397

The night was deep and still.

Moonlight spilled through the balcony like a gauzy veil, casting a gentle, silvery haze over the bedroom. Everything felt warm and peaceful, wrapped in the hush of midnight.

Isadora lay in bed, arms draped around the man beside her, instinctively seeking the comfort of his familiar, pine-scented warmth.

It had been a long, exhausting day.

She was so tired.

She'd thought she wouldn't be able to sleep in the Fitzgerald family's grand estate.

But now, drowsiness weighed heavily on her.

"Victor..." she murmured, half-asleep.

Victor's dark eyes lingered on her, deep and intent. He stroked her soft curls with

a gentle hand, his voice low and tender. "What is it?"

Maybe she was already dreaming. With her eyes closed, Isadora whispered, "Good... night."

Moments later, the room fell silent, save for the steady, peaceful rhythm of her breathing.

She slept quietly, curled up like a kitten.

Victor watched her for a long while, then bent and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, my Isadora."

After a moment, he slipped carefully out from under the covers.

He rose and left the bedroom.

As Victor stepped into the hallway, the softness in his gaze faded, replaced by a flash of cold determination.

The Fitzgerald Mansion was like a fortress-grand and imposing, with its main house flanked by four smaller wings, all in timeless, classical style.

Victor headed toward the rear wing, his posture composed and commanding, dressed in black from head to toe. His footsteps echoed sharply in the quiet halls.

He passed through a long corridor, crossed the back garden, and paused at the door of a room in the west wing.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Deanna sat slumped in a carved wooden chair, looking drawn and weary.

She was still wearing the elegant, slate-grey suit she'd chosen that afternoon, but her face was ashen, her expression grim.

She didn't seem surprised to see Victor. Resting on her knees was a black-framed photograph of Dorian.

Victor stood above her, one hand in his pocket, his eyes cold and unreadable. "Why did you do those things to Isadora?"

ragged, hoarse. "That was

icy. "Would Pattie have

respect-even Dorian Fitzgerald had deferred to her. No one

with her own hands -would defy her, again and again, all

thought darkened her expression

I gave the order?" she snapped. "Victor, do you want

his voice cut through the room

on Isadora again. This is the last time

The sharp sound broke the

the photograph of Dorian at

coolly, and the frame struck the door,

Breathing hard, Deanna shouted,

living here? You

at me! A woman like her-you want me to accept her into the

vernet

He looked down at the fallen photograph, utterly unmoved, His voice was cold and ruthless. "If she wants to play, I'll play with her. If it makes you miserable, then you'll just have to bear it. Otherwise, from now on, this house will

with the old man gone, if you want to enjoy your retirement, I suggest you behave.

"Victor!"

stared at him, stunned by his cruelty. In a sudden burst of desperation, she snatched a letter opener from the table and

with icy finality. "You know I don't take kindly to threats. If you want to do it, I make sure

turned and walked

door slammed behind

letter opener slipped from

the floor. Her gaze was empty, like a dried-up well lost in the desert-parched, abandoned, and

was deep

silvery haze over the bedroom. Everything

the man beside her, instinctively seeking the comfort of his

had been a long,

She was so tired.

able to

weighed

"Victor..." she murmured, half-asleep.

dark eyes lingered on her, deep and

his voice low and

her

for the steady, peaceful rhythm

slept quietly, curled up like a

while, then bent and pressed a gentle

"Goodnight, my Isadora."

a moment, he slipped carefully

rose and left the

his gaze faded, replaced by a flash of

its main house flanked by four smaller wings, all in timeless, classical

commanding, dressed in black from head to toe. His footsteps echoed