Chapter 133
Chapter 133:
Jocelyn blinked, disoriented, and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “Did you kiss me p>
“In your dreams, Wolfe,” he said, already walking away.
She sat there for a moment after he left the room, fingers drifting to her lips. They tingled with a warmth that felt too real to be imagined. The stress of the week, she told herself — it was getting to her, manufacturing sensations that weren’t there. That had to be it.
She shook her head slowly and went to bed.
Gaston watched her door click shut. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He had nearly been caught. But the feel of her lips — warm and soft — had been worth every second of the risk.
The game was no longer about contracts or appearances or what the investors needed to believe. It was about one thing: making her see the truth he could no longer pretend wasn’t there.
The decision had settled in Gaston’s bones the night before — a cold, hard certainty. He was done waiting for her to see the truth. He would make her feel it. Brick by brick, he was going to break down her walls. And he had three days to do it.
The black limousine hummed along the West Side Highway, its tinted windows shielding the occupants from the mid-morning glare.
𝗟a𝗍𝖾𝘀𝘵 𝗰hа𝗽𝗍е𝘳𝘀 𝘰ո
Jocelyn sat rigidly on the leather seat, clutching her overnight bag until her knuckles whitened. Her stomach was turning slow, nauseating flips. Three days. Just the two of them.
“You look like you are heading to an execution, not a photoshoot,” Gaston observed from the seat across from her. He wasn’t scrolling on his phone. He was watching her with an unnerving stillness, his gaze intent and analytical. He looked infuriatingly composed in linen pants and a navy polo shirt that fit him far too well.
“I don’t like boats,” Jocelyn muttered, adjusting her sunglasses. “Small spaces. Nowhere to run p>
“It’s not that small,” Gaston said, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips before it disappeared.
The car turned into Chelsea Piers. Jocelyn expected them to pull up near the smaller slips where the day-charters docked. Instead, the driver bypassed the public docks entirely, heading toward the VIP deep-water berth.
The car stopped. The driver opened her door.
Jocelyn stepped out and raised a hand against the sun reflecting off the Hudson River. Then she froze.
Looming before her was a floating palace. Sleek, white, and absolutely massive — four decks of polished fiberglass and chrome. A crew in crisp white uniforms stood in a perfect line along the dock, waiting.
On the stern, in elegant backlit lettering freshly applied to the hull, was the vessel’s name: The Wolfe.
Jocelyn’s jaw dropped. She turned to Gaston, who had stepped out behind her and was putting on his sunglasses.
“This is excessive,” she murmured, her voice small against the noise of the city and the deep hum of the ship’s generators. “You said a boat. This is a zip code p>