The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 399

"Four years," he finally murmured, his tone eerily flat.

Miles nodded gravely. "Yes, sir. Four years."

Christian laughed.

It was a dry, hollow sound, completely devoid of warmth.

"It seems her time abroad was incredibly eventful."

Miles didn't dare utter a single word in response.

Christian turned fully to face him.

"Make the arrangements," he commanded coldly. "Arrange another DNA test for Leo Langford. Keep it absolutely buried."

Miles blinked in surprise.

"But Mr. Lancaster, didn't we already run a—"

"Do it again," Christian snapped, instantly severing the protest.

Miles nodded quickly. "Understood."

He hesitated for a second before adding, "Sir, regarding the Charles de Rothschild estate... they've rejected our request again. They're still claiming they have no availability."

Christian's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his cigarette.

A small cluster of ash tumbled to the floor.

"Keep sending the requests," he ordered.

Miles nodded, turning on his heel to leave.

"Wait."

Miles froze in his tracks.

Christian stepped closer to the window, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape.

"Get it done."

Miles gave a crisp acknowledgment and quietly slipped out, shutting the heavy door behind him.

Christian was left entirely alone in the cavernous suite.

Standing in the sunlight, he took a deep, lingering drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

The thick gray smoke billowed up into the warm sunlight before dissolving into nothing.

His dark, predatory gaze remained locked onto the distant Parisian skyline, his eyes bottomless and unreadable.

—

Room 1705.

The shower ran on full blast.

Lyra stood under the scalding spray, letting the water batter her bruised skin. She stared down at her own body, viewing every red mark as a brand of utter humiliation.

She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed frantically at the red welts on her throat.

She scrubbed until her skin was raw and burning.

She scrubbed until she was in agony.

But the bruises refused to fade.

She finally dropped her hands, staring blankly into the vanity mirror.

The thick steam had fogged up the glass, leaving only a blurry, pathetic silhouette staring back at her.

Her hands slowly curled into white-knuckled fists.

"Leon..." she whispered, her hateful voice echoing off the tiled walls. "If you died... it would be perfect."

—

Downtown Paris, Leon's apartment.

Leon pushed open his front door and strolled inside.

The living room lights were blazing, and a figure was perched stiffly on the sofa.

It was his fiancée, Chloe Fontane.

She was dressed in a stunning champagne cocktail dress, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless. But her eyes were locked onto him, blazing with the intensity of two raging fires.

"Where the hell have you been?" she shrieked, her voice shrill and grating.

Leon spared her a single, bored glance and didn't bother replying.

He casually tossed his jacket onto the couch and headed straight for the bathroom.

Chloe shot up from her seat, trailing right behind him.

"I asked you a question! Where were you?"

Leon continued to ignore her existence.

He stepped into the bathroom and firmly shut the door in her face.

Chloe stood in the hallway, practically vibrating with rage.

A few minutes later, she violently shoved the door open.