Chapter 7

Violette's POV

Isabel swallowed hard, still attempting to downplay the situation. "Actually... actually, I'm not really hurt. Just my dress got dirty. It doesn't matter if I suffer a little—can we just go home? Please don't call the police..."

William had just hung up from dialing 911, and hearing Isabel's words, the fury in his eyes instantly melted into deep emotion.

He looked at the woman in his arms with disbelief, pulling Isabel tighter against him before lowering his head to plant a tender kiss on her forehead.

"Isabel, you're too kind." William's voice was thick with affection and guilt. "You've been wronged so badly, even hit, and yet you're still thinking of me—worried I'll offend someone, worried Grandpa will scold me. How can you be so foolish?"

He raised his head, glaring viciously at Andre and me, making a solemn vow. "Don't be afraid. I'm here. No one's going to bully you today. I won't let you suffer for nothing. The police will be here any minute, and I'll make sure they pay for this!"

Isabel's face turned deathly pale in an instant.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but seeing William's righteous expression, she ultimately swallowed whatever she'd meant to say. Her eyes kept darting toward the door, her hands twisting together anxiously.

Less than three minutes later, the club manager rushed in carrying a tablet.

"Miss Morrison, we've pulled up the surveillance footage."

"Cast it to the screen," I ordered coldly.

The manager didn't dare delay. He immediately connected the tablet to the massive LCD television mounted on the private room's wall.

The screen flickered once, and the image appeared with crystal clarity.

This was one of the club's top-tier VIP rooms, equipped with high-resolution cameras covering nearly every angle with almost no blind spots.

Everyone's attention fixed on the screen.

The footage showed what had happened about fifteen minutes earlier.

Isabel was sitting on the sofa, reaching for a cup of the club's specialty red tea on the table. Whether her hand slipped or it was deliberate, her wrist gave a visible tremor, and half the cup's contents spilled directly onto the chest of her white dress.

Andre, who'd been sitting across from her looking at his phone, glanced up and frowned.

Isabel cried out, fumbling frantically for napkins on the table. But with her pregnant belly and awkward seated position, her movements were clumsy—she tried several times but couldn't pull any napkins free.

Andre sighed. Out of basic gentlemanly courtesy, he leaned forward, pulled several napkins from the box, and extended them toward Isabel.

The footage was absolutely clear.

Andre's hand stopped in midair, at least ten centimeters away from Isabel's chest. He was simply offering her the napkins—he hadn't even touched the edge of her clothing.

Just as Isabel reached out to accept the napkins, the door was kicked violently open.

William charged into frame like an enraged bull who'd lost all reason. Without taking even a moment to assess the situation, he grabbed the vodka bottle from the table and smashed it brutally against Andre's forehead.

The video ended, freezing on the frame of William holding the bloody broken bottle, shielding Isabel behind him.

The entire private room fell silent as death.

The frozen image on screen showed Andre's hand suspended in midair, still at least ten centimeters from the edge of Isabel's dress.

The evidence was irrefutable. There was no room for argument.

Isabel's reaction was lightning-fast.

After a brief moment of rigidity, she immediately covered her face, her shoulders beginning to shake violently. Suppressed sobs echoed through the quiet room, particularly jarring—she was trying to use tears to mask the panic and guilt of having her lies exposed.

I watched this pathetic performance with cold eyes, then turned to William, my voice hard as ice. "Did you see clearly? If you don't need your eyes, you can donate them to someone who does. Now, immediately apologize to Mr. Fraser and cover all his medical expenses and subsequent compensation."

William stared fixedly at the screen, his expression ugly.

He clearly hadn't expected this club's surveillance cameras to have such high resolution.

But how could he possibly admit he was wrong? He turned to glance at Isabel, who looked ready to faint from crying, then looked back at me, suddenly seizing on what seemed like a lifeline as he began shouting.

"It's you! Violette, this is all your fault!"

I was nearly amused by his shamelessness.

William accused me with complete conviction. "If you hadn't come in making a scene the moment you walked through that door, even getting physical with people, would Isabel have been too frightened to speak? She's a pregnant woman—of course she's timid. You scared her so badly her mind went blank, naturally she didn't dare clarify what happened! And now you're blaming her?"

This absurdly twisted logic came from his mouth with such naturalness.

I crossed my arms, looking at him coldly. "So you smashing Mr. Fraser's head with a bottle—that was also because I frightened you?"

William choked on his words, the veins in his neck bulging.

He argued stubbornly. "Regardless, I'll admit I was impulsive in this matter, but Fraser himself had issues too. Who told him to get so close to Isabel so suddenly?"

Having said this, he turned his head with extreme reluctance to look at Andre, who sat on the sofa with an expressionless face.

He lifted his chin, speaking in an utterly perfunctory tone.

"Fine, I'll concede I misunderstood you in this matter. I'll have my assistant transfer the medical expenses to your account. Sorry about that, Mr. Fraser."

This "sorry" carried absolutely no sincerity—it even had a condescending, charitable quality to it, as though Andre should be grateful that William had deigned to apologize at all.

Andre slowly rose from the sofa, still holding the blood-stained towel. He turned his gaze to me, and those eyes belonging to a seasoned businessman were now filled with undisguised mockery and coldness.

"Miss Morrison, this is the attitude of the Grant family heir?" Andre laughed coldly, casually tossing the bloody towel onto the glass-strewn coffee table. "I've certainly learned something today."

My heart sank. I knew the situation had become completely irretrievable.

Andre straightened his soiled suit jacket, his voice cold and hard as iron, carrying unquestionable finality. "The partnership is canceled. For all orders in the second half of the year, I'll have my legal department send the termination letters directly to your company. I won't reduce the penalty fees by a single cent. As for this beating, I'll let my legal team settle accounts with you slowly."

William snorted dismissively, apparently not taking these words seriously at all.

Andre walked to the doorway, his steps halting as he looked back at me. His gaze held a trace of sympathy, but more prominently, the sharp insight of a businessman who'd seen through to the essence of things.

"Miss Morrison, I've always admired your capabilities in business," Andre said, his tone calm yet each word cutting deep. "But with this kind of idiot as the Grant family heir, this ship is bound to sink sooner or later. You're a smart person—I advise you to extricate yourself from this quagmire early, before you go down with it."

With that, he walked out of the private room without looking back.