The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 380

The Rothschild Estate, the Master Study.

Golden sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, draping the polished hardwood floor in a warm, lazy glow. Charles sat behind his sprawling mahogany desk, leisurely flipping through a stack of documents.

Felton knocked softly and stepped inside.

"Sir," the butler bowed slightly. "Christian Lancaster has submitted a formal request for a meeting."

Charles's brow twitched upward.

"Christian Lancaster?" He tossed the documents onto the desk and leaned back in his leather chair. "The same man who was married to my granddaughter for three years, forced her to sleep in a separate room, and paraded his mistresses around in public?"

Felton nodded. "The very same, sir."

Charles let out a dark, booming scoff.

"The utter audacity."

Felton remained perfectly silent.

Charles picked up the lavishly embossed envelope and, without even breaking the seal, tossed it directly into the wastebasket.

"Tell him I am unavailable," Charles ordered coldly. "And tell his people not to bother sending another."

"Understood, sir."

Felton turned to leave, but Charles called out to him.

"Hold on." Charles leveled a sharp look at his most trusted confidant. "Does my granddaughter know about this?"

Felton shook his head. "Ms. Sullivan is currently upstairs hosting a virtual medical conference. She is entirely unaware."

Charles nodded in satisfaction.

"Keep it that way," he said firmly. "I won't have that filth ruining her mood."

Felton bowed once more and quietly exited the room.

—

Downtown Paris, the Shangri-La Hotel.

Room 1707.

Christian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a lit cigarette pinned between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the sunlight, obscuring the sharp, exhausted lines of his face.

The heavy door clicked open, and Miles practically jogged into the room.

"Mr. Lancaster," his voice was tight with apprehension. "The Rothschild Estate just replied. They rejected the request. They said Mr. Charles is completely unavailable."

Christian didn't say a word.

He just kept staring out at the Parisian skyline, taking a long, slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling a thick cloud of gray smoke.

Miles watched him, swallowing hard before asking tentatively, "Should we... should we stop sending them?"

Christian slowly turned around.

His face was terrifyingly blank, but something fundamental had shifted in his eyes.

Before today, those eyes had always been fueled by ruthless ambition, cold calculation, and occasionally, a flicker of buried warmth.

Now, all of that was entirely gone.

What remained was a hollow, suffocating abyss of pure darkness.

"Keep sending them," he commanded softly.

Miles froze in shock.

"But Mr. Lancaster, they explicitly told us to—"

"I said, keep sending them," Christian cut him off, his voice so dangerously soft it sounded like an echo from a ghost. "Send one every single day. Keep sending them until they have no choice but to open the door."

Miles opened his mouth to argue, but the sheer terrifying deadness in his boss's eyes forced him to nod instead.

"Understood."

He stood there, hesitating for a long moment before pushing his luck.

"Mr. Lancaster, there's one more thing... regarding the hitman."

Christian's gaze slid over to him.

Miles lowered his voice to a frantic whisper. "If something actually happens to Sebastian Thorne, what do we do? The man is the heir to Thorne Enterprises. He's a multi-billionaire. If he turns up dead in France, the investigation will be absolutely catastrophic—"

Christian walked over to the plush velvet sofa and sank into it.

He crossed his long legs, bringing the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.

"Who exactly do you think he is?" Christian mused, a chilling, mocking smirk playing on his lips. "A man who controls a multi-billion dollar empire from San Francisco? You think he doesn't have a small army of enemies out for his blood?"

Miles was stunned into silence.

Christian continued smoothly. "There is an endless line of people praying for his downfall. Half of his own blood relatives are probably hoping he catches a stray bullet."

He flicked his ash into the crystal tray, his smile turning downright sinister.