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Chapter 337
Chapter 337:
“The divorce lawyers will fight over the paper assets for months,” the old woman continued, her tone uncompromising. “But right now, tonight, you need a sanctuary. A physical fortress that belongs entirely to you. A place where no one — especially my grandson — can ever touch you p>
June’s chest warmed at the fierce protectiveness, but her logical mind immediately rejected the charity. “Grandma, I don’t need p>
“This is not about what you need, June,” Old Mrs. Compton interrupted, her voice rising with quiet authority. “This is about what you are owed. This is a personal apology from me, Eleanor Compton. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Compton Group’s corporate funds p>
The old woman sat up straighter, radiating the power of a billionaire matriarch who had never once been told no.
“I am liquidating a portion of my private trust,” she announced. “I am going to buy you a primary estate in the Hamptons. In cash. Today p>
June’s eyes widened. The air caught in her throat.
A top-tier waterfront estate in the Hamptons was not merely a house — it was a compound that cost tens, sometimes hundreds, of millions of dollars.
“No,” June said, shaking her head firmly. “That is far too much. I cannot accept that kind of money from you. I have my own funds p>
𝘛𝗵𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘴 𝘰f 𝗿𝖾a𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗌 o𝗇
Old Mrs. Compton let out a short, dry laugh — a sound of pure, aristocratic finality.
“Child,” the old woman said, a fierce smirk touching her lips. “In my world, there is no such thing as ‘I cannot accept.’ There is only ‘I have decided to give p>
Without waiting for another word of protest, Old Mrs. Compton reached for the solid gold landline phone on the side table and pressed a single speed-dial button.
“Connect me to the Senior Global Partner at Sotheby’s International Realty,” she ordered the operator.
Two seconds later, she spoke again, her voice clipping the air like a military general issuing orders. “This is Eleanor Compton. Pull the files on your top three off-market waterfront properties in the Hamptons. My granddaughter-in-law and I will be at your Midtown headquarters in exactly thirty minutes p>
She set the phone down. She looked at June, her eyes flashing with undeniable excitement.
“Get your coat, child,” the old woman commanded. “We are going shopping p>
Thirty-five minutes later, a midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a halt in front of the sleek glass facade of Sotheby’s Midtown Manhattan headquarters.
The Senior Global Partner, a man in a bespoke Tom Ford suit, was already waiting on the sidewalk, perspiring slightly despite the cool weather. He bowed respectfully and escorted them immediately into the most secure, ultra-private VIP viewing room on the top floor.
The room was dim, illuminated only by a massive, wall-to-wall digital touch screen.
June sat on the plush leather sofa, her mind detached from the display of wealth unfolding before her. She watched the screen with blank, apathetic eyes as the broker swiped through images of palatial mansions.
Old Mrs. Compton, however, was laser-focused.
“No,” the old woman snapped, dismissing a fifty-million-dollar modern glass house. “I said I want absolute privacy. I require a deep-water private dock, military-grade perimeter security, and neighbors who have held their money for at least three generations. Show me the crown jewel p>