Divorce Unleashed Her: The Mafia Empress Awakens

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."