Chapter 491

Adrienne Prescott glared at Cassandra Winslow’s indifferent expression with barely concealed fury. "You never cease to amaze me. All these years, and you’ve been chasing after solitude?" The bitterness in her voice was palpable.

It was a cruel irony—one woman bold enough to pursue, the other daring enough to reject.

There were only two paths in love—either be merciless or walk away. To linger in uncertainty was a defeat, and Cassandra’s stubborn persistence only proved how much she had already lost.

"Let’s not dwell on that now," Adrienne said, waving a dismissive hand. "Tell me—do I still stand a chance?"

Cassandra tilted her head, studying her. "That depends. What do you truly want? His body or his heart?"

"Don’t be ridiculous!" Cassandra snapped, her brows knitting together. "I want all of him!"

Adrienne smirked. "The problem is, you don’t have either. So, if you had to choose—just one—what would it be?" She held up a finger, silencing Cassandra’s protest. "Be honest. Would you rather have him by your side forever, even if his heart belongs to another? Or would you prefer his love, knowing you can never truly be together?"

The question struck Cassandra like a physical blow. She had spent years chasing Alexander Kensington, convinced that if she just tried hard enough, he would eventually be hers—body and soul.

But Adrienne was right. Reality was far harsher.

After a long pause, Cassandra lifted her chin, resolve hardening in her eyes. "I want him physically. What good is love if I can’t have him beside me? That’s just torment. If I’m with him every day, he’ll learn to love me in time."

Adrienne nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "I thought you’d say that."

"Then tell me—how do I make it happen?" Cassandra demanded.

Before Adrienne could answer, raised voices erupted from downstairs, loud enough to echo through the entire house.

The two women exchanged glances. Adrienne rose swiftly and moved toward the door. Cassandra hesitated only a second before following.

They reached the top of the staircase just in time to witness the scene unfolding in the grand living room below.

Two figures Cassandra recognized immediately—Adrienne’s parents. She had met them briefly before, always composed, always dignified.

But not today.

Joseph Prescott, usually so controlled, was gesturing wildly, his face flushed with anger. His wife, Genevieve Sinclair, stood rigid, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

"No," Genevieve said, her tone icy. "I will never agree to this."

Even in her rage, she was every inch the aristocrat—but the cracks in her composure were impossible to ignore.