Chapter 350

The call ended.

Vincent Langley listened to the crashing sounds from upstairs, his brow furrowed.

He knew his daughter's temperament too well—reckless ambition would only dig her own grave.

He ascended the stairs. Eleanor Langley watched coldly from the sidelines.

This meticulously planned scheme had been orchestrated by Vincent and his daughter together.

She had once taught Isabella the art of manipulation, but now the girl had surpassed her—her methods even more ruthless.

Eleanor traced the edges of a faded photograph in her hands—Isabella as a child.

The little girl in the picture was innocent and carefree, her features unmistakably Vincent's. She had never doubted the girl's parentage.

She set the photo down carelessly on the hallway console.

Only by stirring the hornet's nest could she force Vincent to reveal the truth of that year.

Her gaze hardened as she thought of the paternity test report hidden in the bedroom safe.

This family would soon crumble.

She descended the stairs slowly. Beyond the ten-meter floor-to-ceiling windows, dusk settled.

Her oatmeal-colored knit sweater lent her a gentle elegance, the white wide-leg trousers adding sophistication.

Her eyes flickered over Isabella's childhood photo—the last trace of warmth in her heart extinguished.

She had married Vincent in a fit of pride, only to realize now how foolish she had been.

With measured steps, she walked toward the front door. Behind her, the sounds of destruction continued unabated.

...

Isabella's bedroom was in ruins.

Vincent winced at the shattered porcelain scattered across the floor.

"Isabella, these are antiques! No matter how angry you are, you can't take it out on money!"

Even with his vast wealth, such waste was unbearable.

His cheeks trembled with fury.

Isabella's eyes burned with malice. "Dad, the plan failed! We didn't get the Roscentes. What good is an empty-shell Ashcroft family?"

The viciousness in her gaze sent a chill down Vincent's spine.

Of his three daughters, Isabella and his other illegitimate child were his favorites.

Outwardly sweet and docile, but at their core, just as merciless as he was.

"Patience. There will be other opportunities. Dominic is still by your side—he's a sharp blade."

In his line of work, trust was paramount.

Knowing when to cut losses was survival.

Using a scapegoat was too risky.

Win, and they'd have everything. Lose, and it would be their ruin.

If the Roscentes couldn't be taken down, they'd find another target.

One by one, they'd climb to the top.

Isabella lounged lazily on the white leather sofa, the setting sun casting a bloody glow over her.

Her eyes narrowed darkly. "Evelyn was supposed to die in prison, but now she's cleared her name."

A country bumpkin—how did she have so many powerful allies?

It had to be that fox-like face of hers.

She would destroy it. But her last attempt had failed.

The more Isabella thought about it, the more her hatred festered.

She had pulled so many strings for this scheme.

"Dad, I won't rest until Evelyn is dead. Adrian's heart will always belong to her."

These past two years had made it clear—Adrian wouldn't even lay a finger on her.

On their divorce day, he'd smudged her lipstick on purpose—a show for Evelyn.

In truth, nothing had ever happened between them.