The resounding slap that Ashlyn unleashed struck with merciless precision, sending Thalia reeling backward until she collapsed onto the polished floor in an undignified heap.

"Mom!" Carl cried out, his voice sharp with alarm.

Carl, Paulina, and the rest of the Hughes family stood rooted in stunned silence.

Not one of them had truly believed Ashlyn capable of raising her hand against Thalia.

Carl's features hardened into a mask of barely contained fury, composure utterly abandoned.

The woman before him bore no resemblance to the Ashlyn etched in his memory—the one who had always yielded first, trusted him without reservation, and paid dearly before daring to question him.

"Ashlyn, what in God's name do you think you're doing?" Carl roared. "Apologize to my mother right this instant. If you refuse, I swear I will never forgive you. I'll divorce you—do you understand me?"

In years past, that single threat had sufficed to crush any resistance. Whenever conflict flared between Ashlyn and Thalia, the mere mention of divorce had forced Ashlyn to swallow her pride and endure in silence.

Carl was certain the old pattern would hold.

What he could never have foreseen was Ashlyn's calm, unflinching response. "Divorce? Perfect. When my assistant arrives tomorrow to reclaim the shares, we can finalize the paperwork then and there."

For a moment, Carl stood speechless, Ashlyn's words refusing to settle in his mind.

An unwelcome suspicion clawed its way to the surface. Had every display of Ashlyn's been calculated? Had she, in fact, heard everything—his betrayal with Paulina, every vile confession uttered beside her seemingly lifeless form?

There was no time to pursue the thought.

"Ashie," Carl said quickly, forcing warmth and regret into his tone, "surely you didn't mean that. Are you angry because I proceeded with today's press conference without consulting you?"

Swallowing his rage, Carl preserved the facade of a concerned husband for the flashing cameras as he approached Ashlyn slowly.

When he stood close enough, he dropped his voice to a venomous whisper meant only for Ashlyn's ears.

"Don't push this any further," he warned. "You were unconscious for three years. Do you honestly believe the company still bends to your every whim? Many of your former loyalists answer to me now. If it comes to open war, I won't necessarily be the one who loses. Don't force my hand."

At last, the mask had slipped entirely.

He had abandoned pretense and moved straight to intimidation.

Ashlyn responded with a soft, scornful laugh that cut deeper than any shout.

She had truly lost her senses all those years ago, entrusting her heart to a man so utterly shameless and two-faced.

On the international stage she had once commanded, even the least distinguished of her admirers wielded far greater power and prestige than Carl could ever dream of.

The thought of past suitors inevitably summoned one name above all. Isaac Willis.

Isaac hailed from the Willis family—the preeminent arms conglomerate on the planet, an entity that operated on the same stratum as the Deity Syndicate.

He and Ashlyn had grown up side by side. He had once laid his heart bare to her, only to be rejected without a second thought—all for Carl.

In retrospect, Ashlyn could only regard her former self with a profound sense of incredulity and regret—an almost unbearable foolishness that now seemed incomprehensible.

Ashlyn met Carl's glare with serene indifference. "Hughes Group scarcely registers as a line item on my personal balance sheet. I maintain substantial stakes in numerous companies ranked among the global top hundred. Do you truly imagine this little advantage is sufficient leverage against me?"

Her declaration landed like a thunderclap, rippling through the assembled crowd.

A peal of incredulous laughter erupted from one of the Hughes family members. "Did everyone hear that? She claims ownership in multiple global top-hundred corporations—not just one, mind you! Three years in a coma must have unhinged Ashlyn completely. That sort of delusion is beyond absurd. Shareholders, you heard her yourselves. In her current state, are you truly prepared to return control of Hughes Group to her?"

In that instant, uncertainty flickered across the faces of even the most senior shareholders.

Ashlyn had undeniably been a formidable leader once. Yet asserting ownership in several of the world's elite corporations strained credulity to the breaking point.

It rang more of mockery than genuine assurance.

If she commanded wealth and influence on that scale, why would she ever have lingered in a modest city like Giphis?

Had three years of unconsciousness irreparably clouded her judgment?

Could a woman in such a state still be trusted to lead Hughes Group?

"Enough, Ashie," Carl interjected sharply. At first, he had feared Ashlyn might have overheard his infidelity while trapped in her coma.

Now, the notion that the accident and prolonged coma had impaired her faculties seemed far more plausible.

Once Carl embraced that convenient rationale, the puzzle pieces aligned neatly in his mind.

Ashlyn's uncharacteristic defiance that day at last possessed a logical explanation.

For the moment, his priority was to contain the spectacle and prevent outright chaos. Later, in private, he could maneuver Ashlyn—clearly not in her right mind—exactly where he needed her.

Placating someone whose judgment had been compromised would prove straightforward enough.

Carl exhaled slowly, the knot of tension in his chest loosening.

Just as derisive laughter and murmurs of disbelief began to ripple through the assembly, a resonant male voice boomed from the entrance.

"Who dares claim she is lying?"

The words were followed by the crisp, synchronized cadence of boots echoing across the marble floor.

Dozens of men clad in black poured into the hall from both aisles, moving with lethal precision. Each carried a Smith & Wesson M76 submachine gun slung at the ready.

Emblazoned on every chest was the unmistakable golden lion—the heraldic symbol of the Willis family.

In an instant, the atmosphere transformed from triumphant festivity to charged silence.

Conversations halted abruptly, as though severed by a blade.

Framed by this formidable escort strode a tall, commanding figure whose impeccably tailored suit did little to disguise the raw power of his physique or the innate authority that radiated from him.

Isaac surveyed the room with unhurried composure, his gaze sweeping across the stunned crowd.

When his eyes finally settled on the woman he had sought relentlessly for more than seven years, a subtle warmth softened their steel.

He spoke deliberately, every syllable weighted with unshakable conviction.

"Every word she uttered is the absolute truth. Registered under Ashlyn's name are one corporation ranked among the global top twenty, three within the top fifty, and five inside the top hundred. Should anyone here dispute that fact, then consider it a dispute with me personally."

The moment Isaac crossed the threshold, the temperature in the vast hall seemed to plummet, as though an icy wind had swept through the room.

Breaths caught in throats; the air itself grew heavy.

The entire assembly stood transfixed by Isaac's abrupt entrance, the sheer weight of his presence imposing a hush more effective than any command.

"Isaac?"

Ashlyn, who had been locked in silent confrontation with the Hughes family, felt her pupils contract sharply as she registered the familiar figure—a man she had not laid eyes upon in years.

She had anticipated that, once she formally reasserted her presence on the global stage, some of her former subordinates might seek her out.

Yet she had never dreamed that the first to appear would be Isaac—the very man whose heartfelt confession she had once rejected publicly and without a shred of mercy, leaving him profoundly humiliated before the world.

And still… he had come to stand with her?

As for the Hughes family, they were far removed from the rarefied circles of true old-money aristocracy. Their newfound affluence stemmed entirely from Ashlyn's tireless efforts over the years; before her intervention, they had been utterly ordinary, unremarkable people.

Consequently, they failed to recognize the golden lion insignia adorning each guard's chest—the unmistakable emblem of the Willis Group, the planet's most formidable arms conglomerate—nor did they comprehend the true stature of the man who bore it.

Once the initial shock subsided, Carl recovered first, his voice laced with irritation and bravado. "And just who the hell are you? What gives you the right to speak on Ashlyn's behalf?" It was the first time in his life that Carl had felt such an oppressive, suffocating aura emanating from another man.

Since when had Ashlyn been acquainted with someone of this caliber?

She had always maintained a distance from other men to avoid even the hint of misunderstanding. Now, out of nowhere, this Isaac materialized—and the sight gnawed at Carl with deep, instinctive unease.

The name Isaac rang no bells. In all his years navigating business circles, Carl had never once heard of him.

Drawing himself up, Carl narrowed his eyes defiantly. "This is a private matter between Ashlyn and me. Since when does an outsider have any place meddling? Don't imagine that parading in here with guns and staging this theatrics will intimidate anyone. You're simply putting on a performance for her benefit, aren't you?"

Turning to Ashlyn, he adopted a patronizing tone. "That's enough, Ashie. You've carried this farce far enough. Three years unconscious—it's no wonder your judgment is clouded. I won't hold it against you. But whatever passes between us is our concern alone. We don't need strangers inserting themselves, do we?"

In Carl's mind, the deception was transparent. Ashlyn, freshly awakened and disoriented, had evidently hired these men to orchestrate an elaborate bluff.

And, truthfully, the act was amateurish—anyone with eyes could see through it.

One of the Hughes family members let out a derisive snort as comprehension dawned. "Ah, so they're merely rented thugs. I was wondering how an armed unit could materialize with such perfect timing."

Another one chimed in at once, "She is far more cunning than she lets on. We nearly fell for it—clearly we underestimated her scheming."

Their stares toward Ashlyn hardened into open scorn.

No one had imagined Ashlyn would stoop to such brazen trickery merely to wrest back control of the shares.

In their estimation, Ashlyn remained nothing more than a forsaken orphan, bereft of family or genuine connections. Without the Hughes family's patronage, she would likely have ended up destitute on the streets. How could a woman of her supposed standing possibly command the loyalty of men bearing genuine military armament?

"Oh, come now," another sneered. "I would wager those guns are props as well. Firearms of that caliber aren't something one simply purchases on a whim. If you're going to stage a charade, at least make it believable. This isn't some lawless back alley where you can run amok. Leave while you still have the chance."

Laughter rippled through the Hughes family, emboldened by their collective dismissal.

Carl shared their conviction. Though no weapons expert, even he could discern the sophisticated craftsmanship of the arms on display.

Ordinary firearms were commonplace—the Hughes family possessed a few themselves. But military-grade submachine guns of this sophistication could not be acquired through wealth alone.

It demanded far more than mere wealth—genuine, unparalleled connections—which was precisely why the Hughes family arrived at their comforting conclusion that Isaac was nothing more than hired muscle, and the weapons mere theatrical props designed to intimidate.

Observing their smug, self-satisfied expressions, Ashlyn felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat at their staggering ignorance. Only after every last vestige of affection for Carl had been extinguished did she fully grasp how profoundly foolish she herself had been—how blindly she had surrendered her heart to a man of such utter worthlessness.

Her features sharpened with resolve as she steeled herself to intervene.

Yet, before she could utter a word or take a single step, a sharp volley of gunshots shattered the tense silence, reverberating through the grand hall like thunder.

Isaac regarded Carl with the detached contempt one might reserve for an insect. The three precise shots he had fired around Carl's feet still seemed to echo as he lowered the handgun, thin tendrils of smoke curling from its muzzle.

He holstered the weapon with fluid grace, saying nothing at all.

Words were unnecessary; the unyielding authority in his gaze conveyed everything.

The firearm was undeniably real.

And to him, every soul in that room amounted to less than nothing.

Carl recoiled violently, stumbling backward and nearly crumpling to the floor in terror.

"Are you out of your mind? Were you trying to murder me?" he bellowed, his voice cracking as cold sweat streamed down his face. Death had brushed past him by mere inches.

Damn it all—the guns were genuine.

The entire assembly stood paralyzed, breath suspended in collective shock.

It was not merely that Carl had narrowly escaped being shot. If the weapons were authentic, then this was no staged spectacle.

Ashlyn truly commanded the allegiance of someone capable of deploying a private armed contingent.

A chilling wave of dread washed over Carl, sinking deep into his bones.

In that frozen instant, a single voice pierced the stunned hush—trembling with sudden, horrified recognition—and the revelation spread like wildfire through the crowd.

"Good God… they're from the Willis Group. The global arms empire that holds sway over the entire world. It's said no significant weapons transaction takes place without their approval. They alone command the most formidable private arsenal on the planet."