Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 150

Isadora hung her head, turning her face away.

She couldn’t bear for this man to see her looking so utterly defeated and humiliated.

It was supposed to be her 24th birthday—a day for celebration. Instead, it had become a cruel joke.

She could face the world with icy detachment, could withstand almost anything.

But this one small act of tenderness shattered the protective armor she’d fought so hard to maintain.

Her fingers clenched tighter; she bit down on her lip, leaving a faint mark on its soft curve.

The jacket draped over her shoulders was heavy with the faint scent of pine—Victor’s scent—its warmth pressing down on her, making her shiver involuntarily.

A lump formed in her throat.

Victor, ever domineering, reached out and hooked a finger under her chin, insisting she look up at him whether she wanted to or not.

He made her meet his gaze.

Victor’s eyes bore down on her, dark and intent, his voice dropping even lower. “Who hit you?”

His shadowed gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade, leaving a chill in its wake.

The crowd instinctively stepped back, cowed by his presence. No one dared provoke the infamous heir.

Meanwhile, Prescott was slowly dragging himself out of the pool.

The early autumn water was cold, leaving him shivering uncontrollably.

Not a single person had bothered to help him.

He shouted, “Who the hell pushed me in? Are you out of your minds? I’m the eldest son of the Vaughan family!”

Richard was the first to react, his voice suddenly harsh. “Enough! Shut your mouth.”

He quickly composed himself, his usually stern face now wearing a sycophantic smile as he bent at the waist in a half-bow.

“Mr. Fitzgerald, we’re honored by your presence. I apologize for not welcoming you properly. This is just a family matter that got out of hand—I’m sorry you had to see this.”

Prescott, having been abroad for years, had never actually met Victor.

All he saw was his father, usually so proud, bowing and scraping like a beaten dog.

His anger only grew. “Dad, he’s the one who kicked me in! Why are you groveling to him?”

Richard frowned. “You don’t understand. This is Mr. Fitzgerald—of the Fitzgerald Group.”

Victor—brutal, unhinged, merciless.

No one dared to intervene.

His features looked even sharper, his voice dangerously low, veins standing out on his forearm as he tightened his grip.

“Do you like hitting women?”

“Like kicking people?”

“Like dragging them around?”

“Is that what you like, huh?”

With every accusation, Victor smashed Prescott’s head against the floor again.

Blood quickly began to stain the polished surface.

“Stop! Please—stop…!”

Prescott sobbed, pain and fear overwhelming him. “Let me go, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t—!”

Victor’s ruthlessness was on full display, cold fury unleashed without restraint.