Chapter 153
The ride to the penthouse was a blur of city lights and bone-deep exhaustion. When the elevator opened directly into the foyer, the silence of the apartment landed on her like a weight.
Gaston was waiting.
He sat in the armchair by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His laptop glowed on the table beside him, open to a screen full of financial charts, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was simply waiting.
Jocelyn let her bag drop to the floor. It hit with a heavy thud.
“Rough night?” Gaston asked. His voice was low, filling the quiet room without effort.
“A Stradivarius,” she said, kicking off her heels and dropping onto the sofa. She buried her face in her hands. “Stolen. The security footage was looped. Professional execution, designed to look like negligence. It’s a disaster.”
Gaston rose and crossed to the bar. He poured a glass of water and brought it to her.
“It sounds convenient,” he said.
“It’s a setup,” she said, taking the glass. Her hand trembled slightly. “I know it. Zack is performing. My uncle is a saboteur. But I can’t prove it yet.”
Gaston sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair back from her face, his fingers warm against her cold skin.
“You need to sleep,” he said. “You can’t fight a war running on fumes.”
𝖣𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌.𝖼𝗈𝗆
“I can’t sleep. My reputation is being torn apart in real time.”
“Let me worry about the reputation,” Gaston said. “Go to bed, Jocelyn. Please.”
She looked at him — his eyes dark and steady, an anchor in the middle of her storm. She nodded slowly.
“Thank you for waiting up,” she murmured.
She stood, walked to her room, and pulled the door shut behind her with a quiet click.
The moment she was gone, the softness left Gaston’s face entirely. His expression hardened into something cold and granite-smooth.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Wake up,” he said.
“Sir?” Vance’s voice was thick with sleep.
“I want a forensic audit of the Schneider family accounts,” Gaston said, moving to the window and looking out over the city that was trying to consume his wife. “Specifically Aspen. Large cash withdrawals, transfers to offshore accounts — anything in the last week.”
“The Schneiders?” Vance sounded considerably more awake. “You think she’s behind the theft?”
“I know she is. And find out who the violinist, Zack, owes money to. Musicians don’t torch their own careers unless they’re desperate.”
“On it,” Vance said.
“And Vance.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Destroy them,” Gaston said softly. “I want every skeleton in their closet dancing in the street by morning.”
He hung up. He took a slow sip of his whiskey. It burned going down, but the fire in his chest was already hotter.
“You want to play games, Aspen?” he said quietly, to his own reflection in the dark glass. “Let’s play.”
In the sub-basement of the hotel, a janitor was emptying the trash from the laundry room when something sharp poked through the plastic bag.