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 be 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 de, 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 uncontrobly.
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 quicklyposed 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 weing 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."
The Fitzgerald Group. The most powerful family in Capitol City.
Banking, real estate, technology-whatever the industry, the Fitzgeralds had their hands in it, their wealth and influence unmatched.
Even overseas, their name was synonymous with power. A world-ss dynasty, topping Forbes year after year.
A chill ran down Prescott''s spine.
Victor''s cold gaze flicked over to him, a glint of ice in his eyes.
"The handprint on Isadora''s face. That was you, wasn''t it?"
Prescott, already shivering, now shook so hard his teeth chattered, unable to utter a single word.
Victor tugged at his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his ck shirt, and slipped off his watch-cing it gently in Isadora''s hand.
It was the one she''d given him as a gift, not so long ago.
Victor rose, taking deliberate steps toward Prescott. Each stride radiated menace.
Prescott''s face drained of color; he stumbled backward on instinct.
The next moment, Victor seized him by the cor and mmed his head against the floor.
A chorus of shocked gasps filled the room.
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 usation, 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 disy, cold fury unleashed without restraint.