Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 361

Preston gasped for air, pain radiating from where Finley had just kicked him.

"It's a misunderstanding… a complete misunderstanding," he stammered.

Finley snorted. "A misunderstanding? Then what were you doing in a hotel room you had no business being in, huh?"

Without waiting for an answer, Finley drew back his foot and slammed it into Preston's stomach with every ounce of strength he had.

Preston's slightly pudgy belly caved in under the blow, and he rolled across the floor, writhing in agony. His face turned a sickly shade of blue, and sweat poured down his forehead in thick, glistening drops.

The women nearby shrank back in terror, their faces drained of color.

The door to the private lounge had been left open, and the commotion quickly drew a crowd. Guests gathered in the hallway, eager for a glimpse of the spectacle.

Doris, the beloved daughter of the owner of The Gilded Lily—one of Capitolion's most exclusive clubs—heard the uproar and hurried over, anxiety etched on her face. This was a place frequented by the city's elite: old-money magnates, corporate powerhouses, and people who valued discretion above all. If the fight escalated, it could tarnish the club's reputation. And then what would become of their business?

Her gaze immediately found Victor, standing tall and aloof, watching the chaos unfold with icy detachment. Maybe, she thought, he'd remember their past acquaintance and show her a little courtesy.

She smoothed her dress, put on her most gracious smile, and approached him with practiced poise. "Victor, there must be some misunderstanding here. Why don't we all just take a step back and talk this out calmly?"

Isadora recognized Doris as the woman who'd poured Victor a drink the last time she was here.

Victor barely glanced her way, his voice devoid of warmth. "Who said you could weigh in?"

Doris flushed with embarrassment, her composure slipping. In this place, every man usually hung on her every word. She shot Isadora a venomous look, as if blaming her for the humiliation.

Meanwhile, Finley shook out his hand and stepped aside.

Victor raised an eyebrow, a cruel, mocking smile tugging at his lips. He reached for a sharp fruit knife from the nearby table, idly running its edge across his palm as if lost in thought.

"Is that so?" he murmured.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than—wham—the knife flew from his hand, slicing through the air and embedding itself in the floor just inches from Preston's head.

Preston nearly fainted from the shock, his eyes bulging as if they might pop from their sockets.

Everyone in the room gasped, the tension crackling in the air. Was Victor really about to go to war over a woman?

Victor's voice cut through the silence. "Where's Rowena?"

Preston's voice quivered as he stammered out the truth. "I don't know. After that night—I haven't seen her since."