Chapter 976

Lucian's piercing gaze remained locked on the mesmerizing figure commanding the stage. Rosalind Fairchild, the privileged heiress with years of ballet training, moved with calculated grace that bordered on hypnotic. Every sway of her hips, every arch of her back was a masterclass in seduction.

A muscle twitched in Lucian's jaw.

The sight of dozens of men devouring Rosalind with their eyes made his blood boil. He hated sharing her radiance with anyone. Truth be told, he'd nearly forbidden her from performing tonight.

As the final notes of the sultry melody faded, Rosalind completed her pole routine—a performance that had set the entire Velvet Lounge ablaze. A delicate sheen of perspiration adorned her porcelain skin, catching the light like morning dew on a freshly bloomed rose.

The crowd erupted.

Glasses pounded against tables as wealthy heirs chanted her name like a prayer. "Rosalind! Rosalind! Rosalind!"

With effortless elegance, she lifted a manicured finger to her lips. Instant silence.

"Gentlemen," her voice dripped like honey, "this dance... was dedicated to one special person tonight."

The room exploded into chaos.

"Me! It has to be me!"

"Don't flatter yourself—she's clearly talking about me!"

Rosalind's glittering eyes swept across the sea of desperate faces before landing on the VIP section. One delicate finger extended—

"Right there."

Every head swiveled toward Lucian's table.

The whispers began immediately.

"Mr. Graves! Ms. Fairchild must be declaring her love for you!"

"What I wouldn't give to be in your position right now..."

A rare smile touched Lucian's lips as his gaze locked onto Rosalind. Was this her way of—

Her finger shifted.

Pointed directly at Isabella Delacroix.

The air left Lucian's lungs as if he'd been sucker-punched. His grip tightened around his whiskey glass until his knuckles turned white. This had to be intentional.

Isabella froze, her face draining of color.

Under the spotlight's golden glow, Rosalind tilted her head. "That, my dear, is what real dancing looks like." Her voice carried the sharpness of a stiletto. "Not some cheap trick to catch a rich husband. Do you finally understand the difference?"

The silence was deafening.

Isabella could feel hundreds of eyes dissecting her—the elite of Metropolia's upper crust witnessing her humiliation firsthand. By sunrise, this scandal would spread through every social circle in the city.

Somewhere in the shadows, a champagne flute shattered against the floor.