The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 522

Lyra stood behind the pillar, watching Genevieve sob on the floor. Her agonizing wails pierced the air like a jagged blade, cutting through the festive atmosphere. The surrounding guests whispered amongst themselves—some discreetly snapping photos, some furiously texting, while others politely pretended to look away. Elaine knelt beside Genevieve, supporting her arm, crying so hard she couldn't speak.

"Genevieve, please stop crying... Leon will be okay..."

Genevieve looked up, her face drenched in tears. "You don't understand... you don't understand..." her voice broke into hoarse gasps. "He's my only son... if anything happens to him... I have no reason to live..."

Lyra watched the scene unfold, her fingers digging fiercely into her palms. She welcomed the sharp sting. Her blood felt like it was boiling with absolute triumph, rushing from her heart to her limbs, straight to her head—an explosive, searing heat that made her want to laugh out loud. She remembered three years ago, when Genevieve had sat on that sofa with her legs crossed, holding a teacup, not even bothering to glance at her. 'You're just a dancer, with no background and no family standing. Did you actually think Leon would marry you? Keep dreaming.' She remembered the ride back that day, how Leon hadn't said a word, and neither had she. She had merely clutched her purse strap in a suffocating wave of fury.

Since that day, she swore that one day, she would bring that woman to her knees.

Now, that woman was on her knees. Not in front of Lyra, but on the floor, wailing like a lunatic. But Lyra didn't care about the technicality. She only cared about the result. The result was that she had won. The sheer ecstasy of vengeance seeped into her bones like molten lava, making her tremble with adrenaline. She had completely forgotten Evelyn's parting words—'Go look for your sister.' Her sister? Who cares. Right now, she just wanted to watch this woman cry.

Upstairs, in the guest room.

The curtains were drawn, and the lights were off. The darkness was broken only by the sound of two sets of breathing—one heavy, one faint—tangling in the quiet space. Lydia lay curled up in the bed, her body still trembling, though the feverish heat had somewhat subsided. As the drug's effects ebbed away like a retreating tide, her consciousness slowly stitched itself back together. She opened her eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. The man beside her had already sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Moonlight spilled through a gap in the curtains, painting his broad shoulders in a pale, silvery glow.

The Duke's hand moved away, giving her shoulder a light pat. "Sleep," his voice was low, carrying a sated rasp.