Chapter 7
Chapter 7:
Kieran grabbed Jocelyn’s uninjured arm, his fingers digging into her bicep. He pulled her roughly away from the mess, dragging her toward the edge of the circle.
“Apologize to Aspen,” he hissed in her ear. “Now p>
Jocelyn looked at him, incredulous. The pain in her hand was a steady drumbeat, but the shock of his blindness was worse. She was pale and trembling, the room still tilting slightly around her.
“She hurt me on purpose,” Jocelyn said. “She squeezed my burn p>
Kieran rolled his eyes. “She was checking your injury. Stop playing the victim. It’s exhausting p>
“I am not playing anything,” Jocelyn said, her voice rising. “I quit, Kieran. I gave my notice this morning p>
Kieran laughed — a cold, sharp sound that made her skin crawl.
“You quit?” He looked at her the way one might look at a child threatening to run away to the backyard. “You don’t have anywhere to go. You need this job. You need me p>
𝖱𝘰𝘮а𝘯𝖼e ոo𝘃е𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝘯
A crowd had gathered. Kieran’s friends — the “Trust Fund Boys,” a cluster of wealthy idlers — were snickering behind their hands.
“Is she causing trouble again?” one of them asked loudly.
Kieran released her arm and turned to address the room, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the music.
“Sorry, everyone,” he said, flashing a charming, apologetic smile. “Just a disgruntled employee. You know how it is p>
He looked back at Jocelyn, his eyes flat and cold.
“You were just an assistant, Jocelyn. Don’t confuse your role p>
The words hung in the air. Just an assistant.
Not a partner. Not a lover. Not the woman who had nursed him through the flu, managed his entire life, and loved him in spite of all of it.
Jocelyn felt the last thread of attachment snap. It was a physical sensation — like a rubber band breaking somewhere deep in her chest.
“Is that all I was?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Kieran said. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to impress Aspen. “And a mediocre one at that p>
Aspen smirked behind him, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from her gown.
Jocelyn straightened her spine. The humiliation burned hotter than her hand, but it also cauterized the wound. A strange, cold clarity settled over her.
“Thank you for clarifying,” she said. Her voice was perfectly steady.
She dropped the folder.
It hit the floor at Kieran’s feet with a heavy, decisive thud.
“Here are your files,” she said. “Pick them up yourself p>
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. No one spoke to Kieran Douglas like that.
Kieran’s face turned a mottled red. “Jocelyn p>
She turned and walked away.
She didn’t run. She walked. Her heels crunched over the broken glass — a deeply satisfying sound.
She ignored the whispers. She ignored Kieran calling her name. She reached the heavy double doors and pushed them open.
The muffled noise of the party faded as the doors swung shut behind her. She was in the lobby. She walked faster now, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving her shaking in its wake.
She pushed through the revolving doors into the night.
It was raining. A cold, miserable New York drizzle that soaked through her blazer within seconds. She stood at the curb, shivering, trying to hail a cab with her good hand while the bandaged one throbbed so insistently it turned her stomach.
A low, distinctive growl cut through the noise of the traffic.
A car pulled up to the curb. It wasn’t a taxi. It was a vintage silver Aston Martin DBS — a car that looked as though it had driven straight out of a 1960s spy film. She blinked through the rain, the thought crossing her mind unbidden: Of course he drives something this impractical. He probably spent the last of his money on it.
The window rolled down.