Chapter 82
Chapter 82:
“Wipe your face,” he said. His voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It was practical. Grounding.
Jocelyn took the silk. It was cool against her heated skin. She dabbed at her eyes, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually break down like that p>
“You just cut off a gangrenous limb,” Gaston said, watching her closely. “Pain is expected. The phantom ache will last a while, but the infection stops today p>
Jocelyn looked at the mascara stains on the dark blue silk. “I ruined your handkerchief p>
“I have more.” He took the cloth back, folding the mess inward with a casual grace, and shoved it into his pocket. Then he reached out and took her hand again. His grip was firm, encasing her fingers completely. “Let’s get out of here. You need a distraction p>
“I have work,” she protested weakly, glancing toward the study.
“You’re the owner. Delegate.” He tugged her hand — not hard, but with an insistence that told her he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Come on p>
Jocelyn grabbed her purse. As she followed him out of the apartment, she realized her legs felt lighter. The crushing weight of her mother’s expectations, the constant fear of the next demand — it was gone. Or at least, silenced for now.
They walked to the private elevator. When the doors slid shut, enclosing them in the quiet metal box, Jocelyn leaned back against the mirrored wall. “Where are we going p>
Rе𝖺𝗱 𝗳𝗋𝗼m 𝘆𝘰𝘶𝗿 𝘱𝗁𝗼ոe on
Gaston pressed the button for the garage. He didn’t move to the other side of the car. He stood right in front of her, invading her personal space in a way that made her heart do a strange, fluttery thing in her chest.
“Shopping,” he announced. “Retail therapy is a scientifically proven coping mechanism for family trauma p>
Jocelyn let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Is that peer-reviewed p>
“I reviewed it. It works.” The doors opened, and he placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her out.
The doorman had the Aston Martin waiting. Gaston drove with aggressive confidence, weaving through the mid-afternoon traffic on Fifth Avenue until he pulled up to the curb in front of Patek Philippe.
Jocelyn looked at the boutique’s understated facade. “Gaston, I don’t need a watch. You already bought me a car. And a ring. And a wardrobe. It feels… excessive p>
“It’s not about need,” he said, killing the engine. “It’s about image. We are a power couple, Jocelyn. We need props. Details matter p>
He came around to open her door. “Besides,” he added, his dark eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t quite read, “I want us to match p>
Inside, the boutique smelled of leather and old money. It was quiet — the kind of hushed atmosphere where silence cost a thousand dollars a second.
The manager, a man with impeccable posture and a suit that cost more than Harvey’s car, approached them immediately. “Mr. Collins. It is an honor to welcome you. How may we be of service today p>