The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 977

The little loading circle spun for a second before a glaring red exclamation mark popped onto the screen.

[Message failed to send. You have been removed from the group chat.]

*Removed from the group chat...*

The sterile system notification felt like an ice-cold dagger plunging straight into Fitch's eyes and twisting into his heart!

He stared at the screen, utterly paralyzed.

An indescribable rush of shock, absurdity, and blinding rage boiled over, turning his face the color of dark, bruised plum.

He was livid.

"They're rebelling!"

"They've lost their damn minds!"

"How dare they block me!"

Fitch hurled his phone across the room. It bounced off the floor as he paced like a caged animal, trying to walk off the sheer fury threatening to consume him.

But no matter how many laps he took, the fire in his chest only burned hotter.

He stopped in his tracks. Despite being totally alone, he yelled into the empty room, his voice raw, as if his family were standing right in front of him. "What do you think I've been doing all this for?!"

"I work myself to the bone, I plot, I scheme... I even..."

The fiery explosion in Northern Myanor flashed in his mind. He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Gloria and the kids were already furious with him over Tamara's situation. If they ever found out he was working with the masked man to orchestrate real, bloody carnage, they'd never forgive him.

He walked over to the liquor cabinet, didn't bother with a glass, and grabbed an open bottle of whiskey. He tipped it back, taking two massive gulps. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it couldn't thaw the cold, bitter hollow in his stomach.

"Blocked me... kicked me out of the group chat..." He let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "What a wonderful family. Without me fighting out there, where do you think your perfect little lives came from? And this is the thanks I get."

He bent down and picked up his cracked phone from the carpet. The screen was still glowing, reflecting his aged, exhausted face.

His thumb hovered over the names—Gloria, Milford, Yvonne. He wanted to call them back, to scream at them, to demand an explanation. But ultimately, his arm dropped to his side, and the phone slipped from his fingers back onto the rug.

All the fight drained out of him, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion.

Fitch collapsed onto the sofa, staring out at the pitch-black night. The luxurious study he had spent a fortune decorating felt freezing cold.

He was inches away from total victory, but somehow, sitting here alone, all the things he had fought so ruthlessly for suddenly felt entirely meaningless.