Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus)

Chapter 395

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 Pattie's

his tone icy. "Would Pattie have dared act without

Fitzgerald family, commanding respect-even Dorian Fitzgerald

her own hands -would defy her, again and again, all for the

thought darkened her expression even

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

long pause, his voice cut through the room like

This is

sound

photograph

frame struck

Breathing hard, Deanna shouted,

here? You know

A woman like her-you want me to accept her into the Fitzgerald family? Over my dead

vernet

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

"And with the old man gone, if you want to enjoy your retirement, I suggest

"Victor!"

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

through them. He spoke each word with icy finality. "You know I don't take

that, Victor turned and walked out without

door slammed

limp, and the letter opener slipped from

the floor. Her gaze was empty, like a

night was deep and

casting a gentle, silvery haze over

bed, arms draped around the man beside her, instinctively seeking the comfort of his familiar, pine-scented

had been a long,

She was so tired.

she wouldn't be able to sleep in the Fitzgerald family's

drowsiness weighed

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

on her, deep and intent. He stroked

hand, his voice low and tender. "What

dreaming. With her eyes closed, Isadora whispered, "Good...

room fell silent, save for the steady,

quietly, curled up like a

watched her for a long while, then bent and pressed a

"Goodnight, my Isadora."

moment, he slipped carefully out from

and

into the hallway, the softness in his gaze faded, replaced by a flash of cold

and imposing, with its main house flanked

rear wing, his posture composed and commanding, dressed in black from head to

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