Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 394

Victor's long fingers idly played with a strand of her hair, letting the silky locks spill through his palm.

He fixed his gaze on Isadora, his eyes rimmed red, shimmering with unshed tears and a glint of anger—though even anger seemed to suit him, making his features more striking, more vivid.

"Then smile for me first," he said, voice low, "and I'll tell you everything."

Isadora curled her lips in a half-hearted smile, clearly humoring him.

Victor's expression softened. A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth as he murmured, voice rich and mellow, "My Isadora is beautiful."

Color crept into Isadora's cheeks, painting them a soft pink.

"Don't try to change the subject. Start talking," she insisted.

Victor fell silent for a moment.

He wasn't someone who shared his own story easily. In his world, exposing your weakness was like handing your enemies a weapon—an admission of defeat.

But looking into Isadora's expectant eyes, for the first time, he felt the urge to confess.

"There's another direct heir to the Fitzgerald family—Farrar, my uncle. He's my grandfather's illegitimate son, and his ambition knows no bounds. He wanted control of the family, envied my father... so he tampered with my dad's private jet. The crash killed everyone on board."

Isadora's fingers tightened around her sleeve.

Family feuds and power struggles were nothing new among the wealthy. People would do anything—sacrifice anyone—for money, for power, for status. But she hadn't expected Victor's father to die that way.

Victor continued, voice steady. "Unfortunately, there was never any evidence. My grandfather couldn't bear to destroy his last blood relative, so Farrar was just exiled—banished from the estate, forbidden ever to return to Capitolion."

"But after my grandfather fell ill, Farrar kept trying to claw his way back. When my grandfather finally passed, he made his move. And because I was out of the picture... the Fitzgerald Group was his for the taking."

Isadora watched Victor's face, so calm it was almost unreadable. She bit her lip. "So when you went to Europe, was it him who set you up?"

He nodded.

Victor hadn't given details, but after seeing his wounds, Isadora could imagine how close he must have come to death.

"How old were you?" she asked softly.

He looked at her, realizing she meant when his father's jet went down. "Six," he said quietly.

"So Dorian and Deanna raised you?"

He nodded again, a faint, ironic smile on his lips.

"Ever heard of something called ‘grooming an heir'?" he asked.

Isadora shook her head.

Victor glanced at a nearby bookshelf. Isadora crossed the room and pulled out a thick, prominently displayed volume: Grooming the Heir.

The cover was stark, the title in bold: Ruthless. Unyielding. Relentless.

She opened to the first page and read aloud: "We must raise a cold-blooded successor. Only then can the legacy survive."

If someone wanted to turn a child into a calculating, merciless leader... what kind of hellish training must that take?

Isadora closed the book, heart heavy. "What about your mother?" she asked softly.

She purposely shot him a mock glare. "Are we competing to see who had it worse?"

Victor's smile spread, soft and luminous. "Isadora, as long as you're here, nothing feels so bad."

Yes, she realized. As long as he was with her, nothing felt so bad.

Their childhoods were carved in stone—shadowed, perhaps, or full of disappointment and struggle. But the future... in the future, there would always be someone. Someone to be your light, to warm your path, to remind you that you're not alone.

Isadora understood that now, deep in her bones.

Maybe it was Victor's fierce devotion, so blazing and intense, that made everything before him feel distant—as if her childhood, even Magnus, were faded memories from another life.

A gentle knock at the bedroom door broke the moment.

Isadora stood and opened it. Two housekeepers stood outside with a trolley.

She hadn't touched her earlier dinner; it had gone cold. So, following instructions, the chef had prepared a fresh meal.

She stepped aside, letting them in. As they started setting the dishes on the coffee table, she waved a hand. "No, just put it by the bed."

The housekeepers finished and quietly left.

Isadora sat on the edge of the bed, cradling a bowl of rice, picking at the light, simple dishes with a fork.

Victor arched a brow at her. "Are you planning to feed me?"

Isadora flushed. "I just don't want your hand to be useless, that's all."