His Bride in Chains-Chapter 304: The Last Conference

Rafael rolled in like he owned the place—which, judging by the suit and the attitude, he probably did. The black tailoring fit him obscenely well, crisp lines hugging an athletic build that had no business looking that powerful from a wheelchair. His dark, wavy hair was styled with effortless precision, the kind that suggested money and a very patient stylist. His chiseled jaw could have cut glass, and his steel-grey eyes drifted over the crowd, calm on the surface, sharp underneath—cloudy only if you believed the performance. The sarcasm lived there too, simmering quietly, right alongside an unspoken promise: touch what’s mine and regret it.

At his side was James, polished in a navy suit, dark hair neatly combed back, wire-rim glasses perched just right. He looked like the sort of man who’d apologize before ruining your life with legal paperwork. His kind eyes held a glint of quiet amusement, as if he were already entertained by the chaos he knew was coming.

Behind them came the entourage—Rafael’s men, and more importantly, Eliana’s personal wall of absolutely not. They moved like shadows with expense accounts. Oliver, lean and hawk-eyed, blended into the background so well you forgot he was there until you really, really wished you hadn’t. Will, all muscle and mischief, carried enough hidden tools to dismantle a car—or build one—on short notice. Liam scanned the room like breaking news, catching every shift in mood before it happened. Kai was silence sharpened into human form. Viktor stood solid and unshakable, the kind of man you instinctively trusted to hold the line. And Jax—Jax didn’t just follow; he coordinated, pulling invisible strings with a calm that suggested this wasn’t his first high-stakes ballet.

Together, they were immaculate. Tailored suits, polished shoes, lethal competence wrapped in luxury. Formidable, refined, and very clearly not a group you wanted to test—unless you had a strong interest in making terrible life choices.

"Eliana, you look absolutely stunning," a billionaire admirer gushed as they passed, but Rafael shot him a withering glance. "Back off, she’s taken," he muttered under his breath, earning a soft laugh from Eliana.

"You don’t have to be so possessive," she teased, squeezing his arm. "But thank you. This night feels magical already."

James leaned in, adjusting his glasses with a grin. "Rafael, if looks could kill, half the room would be down. Eliana, you’re stealing the show—and deservedly so."

Next came Mirabel Vexley and Charles Vexley, escorted tightly by Kenneth’s burly men in dark suits, their grips subtle but unyielding to prevent any escape. Mirabel looked like an icy figure in pearls, silk, and heels, her smooth brown skin flawless under heavy makeup that hid bruises from their recent ordeal. Her tall, commanding presence was undiminished, but her elegant face twisted in cold fury. Charles, the silver fox in his late 50s suit, looked stern and detached, sharp features set in passive calculation. Behind them, Sarai Monroe and her elder sister Bianca glided in, Sarai’s light brown skin glowing in a high-fashion gown, her glossy jet-black hair in a sleek bun, sharp green eyes blazing. Bianca, equally fierce, wore an expensive ensemble, her sharp features unreadable but seething.

As they were led to prime seats—Kenneth’s plan demanded it—their eyes locked on Eliana across the room. Sarai’s manipulative elegance cracked into a venomous hiss. "Look at her, strutting like she owns the place. How did that naive bitch survive the fall? I thought you pushed her hard enough, Bianca."

Bianca’s lips curled in elitist disdain, squeezing Sarai’s hand. "I did, sister. She must have nine lives or something. But don’t worry—we don’t give up, remember? We’ll finish what we started once we get out of this situation. Eliana thinks she’s risen from the ashes? We’ll burn her down eventually."

Mirabel overheard, her voice a low, manipulative whisper. "Quiet, you fools. Kenneth’s got us on a leash tonight. But yes... seeing her alive boils my blood. That girl was supposed to be my past buried, not parading with my stepson."

Charles let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Even now, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—Mirabel truly wanted her own daughter, her own flesh and blood, dead. The thought sat in his stomach like poison.

"You disgust me, Mirabel," he said, shaking his head slowly, as if saying it out loud might finally make it real. "Marrying you is the biggest regret of my life."

Mirabel didn’t rise to it. She didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. She simply rolled her eyes, dismissive and bored, as though he’d just complained about the weather rather than condemned her soul.

Kenneth’s greedy children arrived next, ushered to VVIP seats with smug satisfaction etched on their faces. Williams Holloway, the eldest, with his cold gray eyes, lounged arrogantly. Margaret, expensively dressed, her sharp features unreadable as stone. Evelyn, sleek blonde bob and pursed lips of permanent disapproval. Thomas, the youngest, smirked like a flickering flame—half amusement, half threat, his spoiled meanness evident in his taunting glances.

"Where’s the old man? Thought this was his memorial gig," Thomas quipped smugly, earning chuckles from his siblings.

Margaret adjusted her gown. "Probably rolling in his grave. But these seats? Prime. We’ll honor ’dear Dad’ and walk away richer."

Kenneth himself was nowhere in sight, hidden away in a private annex, preparing his grand revelations with predatory glee.

Farther back, Henry Jackson made his entrance—tall, sharply dressed, and effortlessly handsome, his suit cut to flatter angles that didn’t need the help. His warm eyes swept the room on instinct, and they found her almost immediately.

Isabella Voss stood out in a stunning red gown, impossible to miss and even harder to ignore. The ache from their earlier conversation still clung to her, softening her expression in a way that made Henry’s chest tighten.

He started toward her at once, threading his way through the rows of seats, guided by equal parts urgency and regret.

"Isabella, wait—can we talk? I just want to sit near you," Henry said softly, his kind, reserved voice laced with guilt, regrets and unspoken affection.

Isabella turned, her eyes cool. "Henry, no. We sit far apart tonight. You helped me with Logan, and I’m grateful, but that’s it. Remember what we discussed yesterday? Don’t push." She moved away, leaving him dejected but persistent.

Jason Asher came in last—and everyone felt it, even if no one bothered to look. The former golden boy now wore his fall like a badly fitted suit. His hazel eyes stayed glued to the floor, his once-carefully styled blond hair a mess, and there was a slight limp in his gym-honed stride, as if even his body was tired of pretending everything was fine.

Per Rafael’s explicit instructions, Jason was escorted to a seat at the far end of the hall—practically exile. Isolated. Ignored. Exactly where irrelevance went to sit and reflect.

From there, he could see the VVVIP corner all too clearly. Eliana, laughing—laughing—with Rafael, bathed in warmth and attention Jason believed should have been his by right. The sight cracked something ugly open inside him.

"How dare they?" he muttered under his breath, hands curling into tight fists. "Eliana was mine. This is humiliating."

Narcissistic rage simmered beneath his skin, hot and volatile, fueled by wounded pride and the terrifying realization that the world had moved on without him.

The tent hall, vast and opulent with tiered seating, crystal chandeliers, and stages lined with massive screens, filled to capacity. Cameras dotted every angle, broadcasting live worldwide, capturing the drama for eager viewers.

Finally, the lights dimmed, a hush falling as the hosts—a charismatic duo in tuxedos—took the stage amid applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the lead host boomed, "thank you for joining us for the grand finale of this four-day tech conference! Your participation has made it legendary. Sit tight—the night’s just beginning!"

The MC, a witty comedian in a sparkling suit, bounded up next, mic in hand. "Alright, folks, let’s kick this off! First, we’ll unveil the latest tech wonders—AI that thinks faster than your ex regrets dumping you!" Laughter rippled. "Everyone, clap for the innovations!"

The crowd erupted in excited applause.

"Then," he continued, "we’ll honor companies with the highest deals signed—congrats in advance! And those qualified for tonight’s mouth-watering business wins? You’ll know soon."

More cheers.

"Later, the children of the legendary late Kenneth Holloway will share words to honor their father—touching stuff, right?"

Polite claps.

"And to wrap up before our fabulous dinner party, none other than Rafael Vexley with a few words!"

Thunderous applause filled the air.

"Let’s get this show started!" the MC declared.

The conference officially ignited, lights flashing, screens blazing with tech demos, the air electric with promise and impending chaos.