บททั้งหมดของ From Discarded Wife to His Billionaire Aunt: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The storm struck the coastal cliff where the Grayson estate sat at two in the morning, unleashing its fury without warning. Violent, jagged bolts of lightning torn open the pitch-black sky, followed by deafening cracks of thunder that rattled the leaded glass windows in their frames. Rain lashed against the high walls like handfuls of iron shot, the wind howling through the ancient pines surrounding the dark stone sanctuary. In the master suite, Adelaide sat up instantly. She didn't wake up with the groggy disorientation of a sleeper; her pulse spiked into high gear the second the second thunderclap detonated over the roof. Her mind immediately raced back to the quiet wing on the northern side of the house—to the perceptive, soft-spoken six-year-old boy who sketched falcons and built armors out of charcoal. Slipping out of the heavy silk sheets, Adelaide tied a deep burgundy velvet robe over her nightgown and stepped quietly out into the cold, marble-floored hallway. The corridor

With seventy-two hours remaining before the Grayson Global Gala, the grand courtyard of the Grayson estate resembled an invasion of high-society vanity. A fleet of black vans bearing the gold embossed logos of Paris and Milan’s most legendary fashion houses lined the stone driveway. Inside the estate’s secondary drawing-room, rack upon rack of haute couture pulled straight from European runways overflowed into the hallways. Champagne spilled into crystal flutes, and the air was thick with the suffocating scents of expensive perfumes, hairsprays, and panic. Adelaide stood on a raised velvet pedestal in the center of the room, her expression impassive. Surrounding her were four of the city's most elite celebrity stylists, led by a man named Jean-Paul, whose high-strung reputation made even department store executives tremble. He fluttered around Adelaide like a frantic moth, waving a pair of gloved hands at a pale pink tulle gown adorned with thousands of hand-sewn pearls. "No, no,

The Grand Astoria Ballroom was a dazzling furnace of wealth, light, and power. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted, frescoed ceilings, casting a diamond-like radiance across five thousand high-society elites, corporate titans, and international diplomats. The air was heavy with the scent of white orchids, vintage champagne, and suffocating ambition. At the far end of the ballroom, framed by towering velvet drapes, stood the primary stage, where bank upon bank of national press cameras flashed incessantly like a thunderstorm trapped indoors. Outside, the red carpet stretched down the marble steps toward the avenue. Paparazzi pressed against the velvet ropes, their shouting voices creating a deafening roar as luxury sedans pulled up to the curb. A sleek white Maybach glided to a halt, and the crowd erupted. Oscar stepped out first, wearing a tailored navy velvet tuxedo, his posture radiating unearned dominance. He turned and extended his hand to Maeve Sterling, who stepp

The silence that gripped the Grand Astoria Ballroom was no longer just heavy—it was suffocating. The low, electric hum of television cameras broadcasting live across three continents was the only sound left in the cavernous space. Five thousand guests—corporate titans, foreign dignitaries, and the entire board of Grayson Global—stood frozen like statues, their eyes darting between the towering figure of Dean Grayson, the radiant woman at his side, and the pale, trembling man on stage. Oscar’s vision blurred with blood-red rage. His hands shook so violently against the mahogany podium that the brass microphone rattled. All his months of plotting, his grand speech, his carefully orchestrated press conference announcing his engagement to Maeve—everything had dissolved into dust in a single second. Driven by a surge of humiliation and reckless fury, Oscar abandoned the podium. He marched down the carpeted stairs of the stage, his polished dress shoes slapping loudly against the floor

The VIP holding room located behind the grand stage of the Astoria Palace was an oasis of quiet luxury, insulated from the chaos of the main ballroom by soundproof mahogany doors and thick plush velvet drapes. Deep leather sofas, a private marble bar, and an understated crystal chandelier gave the space the feel of a high-level executive sanctuary. Adelaide sat calmly on a slate-gray velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the heavy emerald silk of her dress pooling smoothly around her heels. The black satin lining of her sweeping cape draped over the armrest like a folded wing. She held a flute of champagne between two slender fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the surface with unbothered, serene focus. Beside her on the glass table sat a leather folder containing the verified digital metrics from *Vance Atelier*’s launch—twelve million dollars in international pre-orders, secured in under an hour, with every major fashion house in Milan and Paris begging for a consulta