Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 223

CHAPTER 162 PART 3

“I left the room,” Marcus corrected. “I didn’t leave the building. Allen’s still taking Atlas to the hospital, but I figured you’d come running out here eventually.”

“They all hate me,” Ives whispered. “I ruined everything. Those people’s families-their futures-all because I wanted to be clever and post a stupid video.”

“Yes,” Marcus agreed simply. “You did.”

“I don’t know how to fix it!” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “My father can’t help. Deleting it didn’t work. Apologizing doesn’t undo anything. I’ve destroyed them all and I don’t know what to do!”

Marcus studied her for a long moment. This was the real Ives-not the spoiled heiress playing games, but the scared girl who’d just learned that actions have consequences and privilege doesn’t shield you from guilt.

“Come with me,” Marcus said finally.

“What?”

“Back inside. Now.” His dragon eyes held hers. “I’m going to fix this. But you’re going to help. And you’re going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understood?”

Ives nodded frantically, scrambling to her feet. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

They walked back into Room 507 together. The young elites looked up, their expressions shifting from hostility toward Ives to wariness toward Marcus.

“Everyone,” Marcus said clearly. “Take out your phones. Open your camera apps. And start recording.”

“Why?” Brandon asked nervously.

“Because,” Marcus replied, walking to the center of the room where a massive wooden table held the remnants of expensive alcohol and food, “we’re going to make a new video. One that changes the narrative completely.”

He positioned himself beside the table-heavy oak, probably weighed three hundred pounds with all the bottles and dishes still on it.

“What are you doing?” Simeon whispered.

Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he bent slightly, his hands finding purchase on the table’s edge. His dragon aura began to manifest-not as pressure this time, but as visible power. The air around him seemed to shimmer slightly, like heat rising from summer pavement.

“Everyone recording?” Marcus asked.

Nods around the room. Phones pointed at him from a dozen angles.

“Good,” Marcus said. “Keep recording. Don’t stop no matter what you see.”

Then he lifted.

The table rose-smoothly, steadily, impossibly. Three hundred pounds of solid oak and luxury dishware lifted into the air as if it weighed nothing. Marcus’s arms didn’t shake. His legs didn’t tremble. He just… lifted it. Held it. Made it look effortless.

Gasps echoed around the room. Several people nearly dropped their phones in shock.

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Marcus held the table above his head for five full seconds-long enough for every camera to capture it, long enough for nobody to claim it was a trick or edited footage.

Then he set it back down, gently, without spilling a single glass.

“There,” Marcus said calmly, his dragon aura fading back to normal. “Stop recording. And post that. All of you. Right now.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Madison stammered. “What does this-”

“It shows power,” Marcus interrupted. “Real power. Not political connections or family names-actual, physical, undeniable capability. When people see this, they won’t be talking about you slapping Atlas. They’ll be talking about the man who can lift a three-hundred-pound table like it’s made of paper. And they’ll understand that anyone standing with me is protected by someone who doesn’t need family backing to be dangerous.”

The implication settled over the room like a revelation. The narrative could shift. Atlas Lancaster humiliated by a room full of people became less important when those people were protected by someone demonstrably superhuman.

“Post it,” Marcus repeated. “All of you. Use whatever caption makes sense. Tag your families. Make sure everyone sees. And when the Lancaster Family comes asking questions, you tell them the truth-you were forced to participate by someone far more terrifying than Atlas ever was.”

One by one, phones lit up with uploads.

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