Chapter 96
Chapter 96:
Gaston stared at her. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from her damp forehead, then waited — watching the steady rise and fall of her chest until he was certain she was in a deep, medicated sleep. Pathetic, he thought, a bitter self-loathing twisting in his gut. Only brave enough to tell the truth when she can’t hear it.
“There’s only you,” he confessed to the sleeping room. “There’s never been anyone else p>
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was hot, but her skin was soft.
“Sleep well, Mrs. Collins,” he whispered.
𝘋𝗈𝗇’t 𝘮𝗶𝘴𝘀 𝘯е𝘄 𝗿𝘦l𝗲𝖺𝘀e𝘴 𝗈n ga𝘭ոо𝘃е𝗅𝘴.c𝗈𝗺
He stood up and walked to the sofa in the corner of the room. He grabbed a throw pillow. He wasn’t leaving her tonight.
Across town, in Kieran’s penthouse, the mood was electric with malice.
Kieran was pacing, a glass of scotch in his hand. He couldn’t get the image out of his head — Gaston wiping Jocelyn’s mouth. The tenderness.
Aspen was sitting on the couch, scrolling her phone.
“She can’t be pregnant!” Aspen insisted. “They’ve been married for a month! And you said he was gay p>
“Maybe he’s bi,” Kieran muttered. “Or maybe it was clinical — an immaculate conception in a petri dish to secure the dynasty. It doesn’t matter. If she is pregnant p>
“That child is the heir to the Collins fortune,” Aspen finished, her eyes gleaming with greed and fear. “Billions p>
“And she’s lost to me forever,” Kieran whispered. He smashed his glass into the fireplace. “I won’t let him have her. I won’t let him win p>
“We need to verify it,” Aspen plotted. “I have a friend in billing at Mt. Sinai. If she goes for a prenatal checkup, we’ll know p>
Outside, thunder rumbled. A storm was breaking over New York.
Gaston watched the rain hit the bedroom window. Jocelyn shifted in her sleep and reached out a hand.
He walked back to the bed and took it. She squeezed it, settling instantly.
He sat on the floor, resting his head against the mattress, holding her hand in the dark — waiting for the fever to break, waiting for the day he could tell her the truth without losing her.
Jocelyn woke to the disorienting sensation of cold sweat and cool air. The heavy, suffocating heat of the fever that had wrapped around her like a lead blanket was finally gone, but in its place was a sticky, uncomfortable dampness. Her silk pajamas clung to her back.
She blinked, her eyes feeling gritty, as though someone had rubbed sand into her lash line. The room was dim, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against the morning sun.
She reached out instinctively to the other side of the bed.
The sheets were cold. Smooth. Empty.
A pang of disappointment hit her stomach before her brain could catch up — a physical ache, sharp and hollow. She pulled her hand back as if the Egyptian cotton had burned her.
Stop it, she told herself. He is your landlord. Your business partner. Not your husband.
She sat up. The room spun lazily for a second before settling. On the nightstand, next to a fresh carafe of water, sat a note written on thick cream-colored cardstock in fountain pen. Gaston’s handwriting was like him — sharp, angular, aggressive.
Meeting. Drink the green juice. — G