Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel 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.

Deanna hurled the photograph of Dorian at Victor.

He sidestepped coolly, and the frame struck the door, then clattered to the floor.

Breathing hard, Deanna shouted, "Why is Isadora even living here? You know what she wants, don't you? She's just using you to get back at me! A woman like her—you want me to accept her into the Fitzgerald family? Over my dead body!"

Victor didn't flinch. He looked down at the fallen photograph, utterly 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 bear it. Otherwise, from now on, this house will have no matriarch—only a Mrs. Fitzgerald."

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

"Victor!"

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

Victor's eyes hardened, a dangerous glint flashing through them. He spoke each word with icy finality. "You know I don't take kindly to threats. If you want to do it, I'll make sure your funeral is a grand affair."

With that, Victor turned and walked out without a backward glance.

The door slammed behind him.

Deanna's hand went limp, and the letter opener slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor. Her gaze was empty, like a dried-up well lost in the desert—parched, abandoned, and hopeless.