Chapter 302 Lines Drawn 

Chapter 302 Lines Drawn 

Laura folded her arms. “Exactly. Some people think they’re geniuses because the company hit the market in three years. Funny how the moment Quinn walked out, the whole structure collapsed. Give it another year–no, maybe less–and 

Grafton Technologies will be a forrente. 

Fury flushed Trent’s face crimson as he lifted his hand, ready to strike Laura. 

Laura never felt the blow. Quinn’s fingers clamped around Trent’s wrist, stopping him cold. Pain shot. through him even before she pivoted. A savage kick slammed into the side of his knee. Trent folded with a crack and crashed to the parquet floor. 

“Touch my friend again and see what happens,” Quinn warned from above, her eyes burning with lethal calm. 

For the first time, Trent felt something alien coil in his chest–fear. 

He watched them stride away, then staggered upright, clothing and dignity equally rumpled. 

He could not afford to sit back and watch his empire crumble. If Sidonie could threaten him, he could threaten Quinn. 

If he lured her back to the office and let her overhaul operations, the company might claw its way out of the pit. 

From his pocket, he produced a sleek silver lighter. At a glance it looked ordinary, but nestled behind the flint was a mini camera–perfect for leverage. 

Trent’s voice barely rose above a rasp. “Quinn, you’ve driven me to this.” 

shilwit 

Thirty minutes later, the lounge lay under dim amber lights that painted every surface in nightclub gloom. 

Trent’s arms were pinned, one on each side, by two bodyguards built like granite. Forced downward, he smashed to his knees so hard the parquet shuddered. Across from him, Julius lounged on a leather couch, fox–bright eyes skating over Trent with frozen disdain. 

Fabian stepped forward and set a matte–black spy lighter on the low table before Julius 

Julius lifted his hand, rolling the sleek silver spy lighter across his knuckles as though it were a coin that knew his secrets. 

With a small beckoning curl of his finger, Fabian understood; the aide stepped forward, slipped a slender black cigarette between those waiting fingers, and withdrew without a sound. 

Julius trapped the cigarette delicately, struck the lighter, and let the newborn flame kiss the tip; a faint ember blossomed, painting his sharp profile in restless gold. He exhaled once, smoke curling like ghostly ribbons, then flicked the lighter onto the glass tea table with casual disdain. “Trent Grafton,” he said, voice velvet yet edged with iron, “what exactly were you planning to capture with that little camera hidden inside?” 

“I… I was just curious, bought it for fun.” Sweat gleamed at Trent’s hairline. 

 

Julius exhaled smoke that spiraled like gray ribbons. “Curious” 

“Yes–curious, nothing more!” Trent’s voice quavered, the word tasting of panic in the room’s thick air. 

Julius spoke as though ordering coffee. A snap of his fingers. “Make him tell the truth.” 

The nearest guard seized Trent’s right wrist and twisted. 

Crack! 

Bones broke like dry branches. Trent screamed. An instant later, the same arm was yanked upward, shoulder popping from its socket. Another howl rattled the velvet–lined walls 

A hammer hovered over Trent’s knee, and terror finally overflowed. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk… The camera was only to capture things about Quinn!” 

Julius‘ eyes darkened. 

A guard presented the spiked liquor bottle Trent had been fingering earlier. 

Color drained from Trent’s face. 

Fabian murmured, “Mr. Whitethorn, the bottle’s dosed–club special for uncooperative guests.” 

Julius let the words hang like icicles. “So you planned to make Quinn drink this, then record whatever vile spectacle followed?” 

“I—I just wanted to remarry her. Mr. Whitethorn, you already cast her aside. I thought… if you didn’t want her, maybe I could win her back.” 

The temperature of Julius‘ glare dropped below zero. He stepped close and crushed the glowing cigarette into Trent’s scalp, grinding until the ember died. 

Trent’s shriek tore through the lounge; blisters bubbled beneath burnt skin. 

“You will never remarry Quinn.” Julius poured a glass from the spiked liquor bottle, then ordered, “Force- feed him the rest, drag him out, and let whatever happens happen.” 

“Yes, sir.” In moments, every remaining drop was sluiced down Trent’s throat. The guards hauled the broken man away, his boots scraping a final, desperate rhythm across the floor. 

Julius studied the last inch of whiskey cupped in his palm. In the dark velvet hush of the lounge, amber reflections flickered across his restless eyes while cigarette smoke drifted like pale ghosts above the table. Without warning, he pivoted toward Fabian, a brittle grin catching on one corner of his mouth. “Tell me, if I empty this glass right now, do you think Quinnie will bother to come rescue me?”