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?"

was ragged, hoarse. "That was Pattie's

his tone icy. "Would

respect-even Dorian Fitzgerald

grandson-the boy she'd raised with her own hands -would defy her, again and again, all for the

thought darkened her expression

order?" she snapped. "Victor, do you want

After a long pause, his voice cut through the

finger on Isadora again. This

The sharp sound broke

hurled the photograph

coolly, and the frame struck the door, then clattered to

Breathing hard, Deanna shouted,

living here? You know

A woman like her-you want me to accept

vernet

utterly unmoved, His voice was cold and ruthless. "If she wants to play, I'll play with her. If it makes you miserable, then

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

"Victor!"

cruelty. In a sudden burst of desperation, she snatched a letter opener from the table and pressed it to

finality. "You know I don't

walked out

slammed behind

letter opener slipped from her

was empty, like a dried-up well lost in the desert-parched,

night was deep and

silvery haze over the bedroom. Everything felt warm and peaceful, wrapped in the hush

lay in bed, arms draped around the man beside her,

been a

She was so tired.

to sleep in

now, drowsiness weighed heavily on

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

deep and intent.

hand, his voice low and

dreaming. With her eyes

fell silent, save for the steady, peaceful rhythm

quietly, curled up like

for a long while, then bent and

"Goodnight, my Isadora."

he slipped carefully

and left the

softness in his gaze faded, replaced

and imposing, with its main house flanked by four smaller wings, all in timeless,

dressed in black from

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