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Chapter 310
Chapter 310:
“Do you really think a simple signature is the only thing keeping her tied to me?” Cole hissed, a twisted smile stretching slowly across his face. “I will file a petition for marital preservation to the Supreme Court tomorrow morning. I will claim that dissolving our marriage will trigger a catastrophic collapse of the Compton Group’s stock and destabilize the entire financial market. I will drag SEC investigators into our bedroom to audit our relationship if I have to. I will tie this divorce up in federal litigation for the next ten years and bleed you both dry in court. As long as I breathe, she remains my legal wife. She remains June Compton p>
Cole let out a low, breathless laugh.
“You can wait until you are rotting in the ground, Love. But you will never be anything more than a pathetic, hidden shadow. She is mine p>
It was the first time Cole had ever spoken aloud the dark, sick truth lurking at the bottom of his soul. He would rather drag her into a legal hell than allow another man to have her.
Crawford’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. He saw the absolute cowardice concealed behind the threat.
“You are a pathetic coward,” Crawford said, his voice thick with disgust. “You threaten to lock her in a cage while you continue sleeping with Alycia Beasley. You use your dead brother’s memory as an excuse to keep a mistress, and you use a piece of paper to torture your wife. You make me sick p>
The mention of Alycia’s name struck Cole’s weakest point like a sudden, targeted blow.
𝗪𝗵a𝗍 𝗲𝘃𝘦𝘳y𝗈n𝗲 𝗂ѕ 𝘳𝗲a𝖽𝗶ո𝗀 o𝗇
The manic confidence shattered. Cole’s eyes darted sideways, flashing with a sharp, intense wave of guilt and confusion. His grip on the metal rail loosened.
June watched Cole’s eyes shift. She saw the guilt.
A wave of pure, bone-deep exhaustion washed over her. She was so tired — so completely, utterly tired of this toxic cycle.
“Get out,” June said.
Her voice held no anger. Only exhaustion.
“I do not want you making this room any dirtier than it already is,” she said, turning her back to him completely.
Cole stared at the back of her head. He saw the way her shoulders had finally slumped. He felt the absolute, impenetrable wall between them, solid as concrete, and understood that he had built every inch of it himself.
He had lost the physical fight. He had lost the psychological war.
Cole slowly backed away from the bed. His chest felt hollow, completely scooped out by his own actions. He turned around and walked out of the hospital room, his heavy boots dragging against the floor like a man walking to his own execution.
The underground VIP lounge of the Crimson Key Club in Boston was completely insulated from the chaotic noise of the city above.
The lighting was deeply dim, casting long, heavy shadows against the velvet walls. A low, mournful jazz saxophone drifted through hidden speakers.
Cole sat alone in the most secluded corner booth.
His expensive suit jacket had been thrown carelessly onto the floor. His silk tie hung loose and ripped open around his neck. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone. On the dark glass table before him sat three completely empty bottles of high-proof single malt whiskey.