Chapter 229
“He’s using her,” Kieran concluded aloud, a sneer twisting his lips. “Collins is using Jocelyn to get back at me — to humiliate me. This isn’t about her. It’s about me.”
“Exactly! He doesn’t really want her,” Aspen agreed, clinging to the explanation like a life raft. “No one could actually want her. She’s a pawn in his game against you, honey.”
“So she’s still obsessed with me,” Kieran said, his arrogance finding solid ground again. “She’s going to these extreme lengths — getting involved with a man like Collins — just to make me jealous.” He smoothed his tie, a disturbing gleam of possession settling in his eyes. “It means she’s not over me. Not even close.”
Inside the Aston Martin, the world was quiet and luxurious.
Gaston drove with one hand on the wheel. “Did you see their faces?”
“Aspen looked like she swallowed a bug,” Jocelyn giggled. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her pleasantly light-headed.
“And the wall?” Gaston asked. “Did you see my edit?”
“J.W. plus G.C. It was… very high up,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She studied his profile — the sharp jawline, the quiet focus in his eyes.
“I wanted to make sure no one could scratch it out easily,” he said, without a hint of irony. “I wanted it to be permanent.”
𝖶𝗵𝖺t 𝖾𝗏e𝗋y𝗈𝘯е 𝗶𝗌 𝗿e𝗮d𝘪n𝘨 𝗼𝗻 𝗀𝘢𝘭𝘯𝗼ve𝗹ѕ.𝘤о𝗆
Jocelyn looked at his hands on the wheel. The hands that had carved those initials into brick. The hands that had once punched Kieran without hesitation.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For tonight. For the dress. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, Boss,” he smiled.
She touched her purse, feeling the weight of The Boss phone case inside.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. A text from Carmen.
SOS. I need you. I’m at the apartment. It’s bad.
Jocelyn sat up straight. “Gaston. Step on it.”
Gaston didn’t ask questions. The engine roared as he accelerated, weaving through the late-night traffic with terrifying precision.
“Is she okay?” he asked, glancing at Jocelyn’s pale face.
“She just said ‘it’s bad.’ Carmen never asks for help,” Jocelyn said, her voice tight with worry as she typed a reply that went unanswered. “She’s the strongest person I know.”
They arrived at Carmen’s upscale apartment complex in Chelsea. Gaston swung the Aston Martin into the fire lane.
“I’ll wait here. Go,” he said.
Jocelyn rushed into the lobby, bypassed the doorman, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.
Carmen’s door was unlocked.
Jocelyn pushed it open. “Carmen?”
The apartment — usually a minimalist sanctuary of white and beige — was a disaster. A crystal vase lay shattered on the hardwood floor, water and flowers spreading from it like a wound. A chair was overturned.
Carmen was sitting on the sofa, staring at a blank television screen. She still wore her work clothes, her blouse unbuttoned at the top, her feet bare. She was holding a glass of whiskey — no ice — and her hand was trembling so badly that the amber liquid rippled with each breath.
“Carmen?” Jocelyn stepped carefully over the broken glass.
Carmen looked up. Her mascara had run in black streaks down her cheeks. She looked broken.
.
.