Semua Bab From Discarded Wife to His Billionaire Aunt: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The thick cream cardstock bore no postal stamp. Delivered by hand in a sealed black envelope embossed with the Grayson coat of arms, the letter rested on the marble island of the penthouse kitchen like a summons to an execution. Adelaide picked it up, her fingers tracing the raised, elegant calligraphy written in iron-gall ink. Sunday evening. Seven o'clock sharp. The Ancestral Estate at Blackwood Hall. Below the time was a single signature, sharp and unyielding: Victoria Grayson. "She doesn't usually invite people," Dean’s deep voice broke the silence as he walked into the kitchen, his dark hair damp from a morning shower. He wore a simple charcoal sweater, but his presence was as formidable as ever. He picked up his coffee cup, his storm-colored eyes narrowing as he glanced at the black envelope in her hand. "She issues commands. If you don't show up, you cease to exist in her world." "Your grandmother," Adelaide said, setting the letter down calmly. "The matriarch," Dean corr

The main course had barely been served when the atmosphere in the cathedral-like dining room thickened once more. Although Victoria had granted Adelaide a nod of quiet, calculating respect, the bitter tension at the middle of the table refused to die. Oscar sat staring at his untouched roast beef, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched his silver fork. The humiliation of being publicly dismantled by his own grandmother—and watching the board members take note of it—was a poison burning through his veins. Beside him, Maeve nudged his knee beneath the heavy lace tablecloth, her dark eyes flashing with desperate, venomous urgency. *Do something,* the gesture demanded. *Fix this.* Oscar cleared his throat, taking a heavy gulp of vintage burgundy to steady his voice. He leaned forward, flashing a tight, artificial smile that failed to reach his eyes. "It really is remarkable how quickly you've adapted to family life, Adelaide," Oscar began, his tone dripping with a weaponized, co

The floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the Mercer Street loft framed the sprawling New York skyline, but inside, the city did not exist. There was only the sharp snip-snip of tailor’s shears, the low hum of heavy-duty sewing machines, and the clean, distinct scent of raw silk and steam.For three weeks following the dinner at Blackwood Hall, the high-society tabloids had been ablaze with whispers of Adelaide Vance's absolute triumph over the Grayson family’s inner circle. Her social standing was no longer a question; she was the untouched queen of the penthouse, backed by both the ruthless authority of Dean Grayson and the absolute blessing of the matriarch.But Adelaide had no intention of resting on the laurels of a gilded surname."The structural tension on the shoulder of the emerald evening coat is off by two millimeters," Adelaide said, her clear, decisive voice cutting through the bustling studio.She stood at the center of the main fitting floor, dressed in a simple, immaculate

For thirty-six hours, the lights inside the Mercer Street loft never flickered off. While the high-society tabloids printed breathless rumors that *Vance Atelier* was on the brink of collapse due to "unspecified supply chain failures," Adelaide worked with cold, mathematical precision. She had stripped away the impounded Italian silk and replaced it with something far more dangerous to her enemies: absolute, raw authenticity. Using museum-grade architectural linen, un-dyed mulberry flax, and vintage silver-threaded brocade salvaged from her father’s historical conservation vault, Adelaide completely re-engineered the final eight looks of the collection. "Look at the way the un-dyed flax takes the light," Marcus breathed, stepping back from a high-backed dress form with bloodshot, exhausted eyes. He held a hand steamer, watching as the heavy, organic textile settled into a razor-sharp, sculptural drape. "It doesn't shimmer like synthetic silk, Adelaide. It... it glows. It looks lik

The dimly lit interior of the uptown lounge smelled of stale whiskey, leather, and cigar smoke—a far cry from the opulent, sun-drenched boardrooms Oscar Grayson used to frequent. Oscar sat in a corner booth, staring into the amber depth of his glass. His crisp designer suit, once immaculate, was slightly wrinkled at the elbows. The dark circles under his eyes spoke to weeks of sleepless nights, driven by a toxic cocktail of wounded pride, escalating financial terror, and relentless pressure. Opposite him, Maeve Sterling didn't bother to hide her disdain. She tapped her manicured nails against the dark wood table, her crimson lips pulled into a sharp, impatient line. "My father is pulling the Sterling Group's support from your secondary investments by the end of the week, Oscar," Maeve said, her voice dropping into a cold, transactional whisper. "The board meeting yesterday was a bloodbath. Dean stripped your remaining voting rights on the international retail committee. You’re eff