Marcus let out a booming laugh that echoed off the glass walls. “A fitting tribute.”

Isolde stood up, picked up her briefcase, and walked out of the room. She had walked down an aisle a year ago expecting a fairy tale, and instead, she had been handed a war. She had fought it, she had won it, and as she stepped into the elevator to return to her empire, she knew she would never need a man to build a castle for her again. She owned the ground they walked on.

Before Alistair could reply, the door to the bridal suite opened with calculated elegance.

Eleanor Vance glided into the room, draped in royal navy silk that cascaded around her like liquid sapphire. At sixty, she possessed the razor-sharp beauty of a woman who had spent four decades mastering the ruthless games of high society. She held a crystal glass of sparkling water, her expression completely untroubled by the scandal that had just rocked the floor below.

“What an extraordinary display of uncivilized theatrics,” Eleanor murmured, casting a dismissive glance over Isolde’s shoulder before looking at her son. “Alistair, darling, people are beginning to speculate whether your bride was trained in a dojo or an alleyway. Throwing guests across the floor like a common bouncer? The morning papers will have a field day.”

Isolde smiled faintly, stepping away from the vanity. “Would you have preferred I let her strike me twice, Eleanor? Perhaps bleed onto the carpet so you could look appropriately distressed for the cameras?”

“Do not use that tone with me, young lady,” Eleanor replied with chilly disdain. “Corisande was grieving. She had a mental lapse. She should have been guided gently to a sitting room, not treated like a stray dog thrown out into the rain.”

“Grieving?” Alistair’s voice broke in, thunderous and hard. “She walked up to my wife and slapped her in the face! She arrived with the sole intention of destroying this wedding. And I find myself wondering how she bypassed the private elevator security without assistance.”

Eleanor did not blink. She took a delicate sip of her water, the emerald ring on her finger flashing in the chandelier light. “Corisande was practically family for seven years, Alistair. Her keycard from the charity gala last month was likely still active. An administrative oversight by the hotel staff. To suggest anything more sinister is an insult to your own mother.”

“You always were an exceptional actress, Eleanor,” Isolde said softly, crossing her arms. “Too bad the hotel’s digital logs record every keycard scan with a timestamp and a security camera still. Shall we call the head of IT up here right now and verify whose personal credentials authorized that elevator?”

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