The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 377

"Besides, someone with Evelyn's status wouldn't even look at Christian anymore. She's got Sebastian chasing her and Charles worshipping the ground she walks on."

Her mother asked tentatively, "Then what about Christian..."

"Christian?" Lyra's lips curled into a sneer. "He can think whatever he wants. The wedding is happening, period."

The line went quiet for a few seconds.

Her mother let out a heavy sigh. "Lyra, don't let this upset you too much. We might not have the Rothschild name, but we're still—"

"Enough, Mom," Lyra snapped, cutting her off. "I'm fine."

She was about to hang up when a sudden thought struck her.

"Actually, Mom... has Lydia called you guys recently?"

Her mother sounded confused. "Lydia? No. Why?"

Lyra fell silent for a second.

"Nothing. Just wondering."

"Is she in trouble?" A note of genuine worry crept into her mother's voice. "Lyra, if you know something—"

"I don't," Lyra lied smoothly. "I just asked. I have to go."

She ended the call.

The hotel room plunged back into silence.

Lyra stood by the window, staring out at the Parisian streets, her brow furrowing deeply.

Her sister's tone, her demeanor, the things she had said last night—

'I didn't come here to ask for money.'

'I'll be watching you.'

'Watching you get exactly what you deserve.'

That chilling tone. That dead-eyed stare. It was completely unlike the Lydia she knew.

What exactly had she been through these past few months in France?

How had she even bypassed security to get into the gala?

That red dress she was wearing screamed custom haute couture.

And the car she had left in—

A limited-edition Bentley, easily worth millions of dollars.

Lyra's fingers slowly tightened into fists.

She thought back to Lydia's release from prison.

Back then, she had just paid some fixer to get her sister out and ship her out of the country as fast as possible. She assumed the problem was solved and never bothered to investigate exactly who pulled the strings behind the scenes.

But looking at it now...

Lyra grabbed her phone and scrolled to a specific contact.

It was a private investigator she had met in France, someone deeply plugged into the underground intelligence network.

She typed out a rapid message:

[I need a background check on someone. Lydia Langford. Arrived in France over a month ago. Find out who arranged her prison release back home, who picked her up in France, where she's living now, and every single person she's made contact with.]

Send.

The reply came almost instantly: [Three days.]

Lyra stared at the screen, a frosty, sinister smile touching her lips.

Little sister.

I don't care who's backing you.

I don't care what pathetic scheme you're plotting.

You better not get in my way.

Or else—

She looked back out the window.

The Parisian sun was still bright and beautiful.

But her eyes were entirely devoid of warmth.

—

On the outskirts of Paris, inside a private training facility.

Sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, fractured shadows across the hardwood floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and rubber mats.

Sebastian Thorne stood in the center of the ring, shirtless, his lean, heavily muscled torso slick with sweat. His skin was mottled with horrific black and blue bruises, fresh purple welts layered violently over older injuries. He looked like he had just walked out of a war zone.

But he remained firmly on his feet.

Opposite him stood a man in his forties, easily over six feet tall, built like a brick wall. He wore a black tank top, exposing arms that were completely covered in faded knife scars.

Marc Dubois. Ex-French Special Forces, now running a high-end private security firm that catered exclusively to the ultra-wealthy. Lance had pulled a lot of strings to get him.

Marc eyed Sebastian up and down, his gaze lingering on the dark bruises blooming across Sebastian's ribs and the split at the corner of his mouth. He couldn't help but chuckle.