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Chapter 495
Chapter 495:
“That is exactly what she is,” Cole said. “And contact the PR department immediately. Issue a press release to every major news outlet. The Compton Group and Cole Compton have zero personal or financial ties to Alycia Beasley. Any claims of a relationship or a pregnancy are fabricated delusions p>
The assistant swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Compton. Right away p>
Ten minutes later, the wail of a siren cut through the Wall Street traffic.
A battered city ambulance pulled up to the curb. Two paramedics jumped out. They did not treat Alycia with the deference afforded to a billionaire’s companion. They treated her like a routine street call.
“Alright, let’s go,” a paramedic said gruffly, grabbing her arm and hauling her up from the concrete.
𝗥𝘦𝖺𝗱 𝗈𝘯 аn𝘺 𝖽𝖾𝗏iс𝘦 𝘰𝗻 g𝘢𝘭ոo𝗏еls.𝗰оm
“No! Don’t touch me!” Alycia screamed, genuine panic overtaking the performance now. “I need Cole Compton! I am having his baby p>
“Sure you are,” the paramedic muttered, securing her to the gurney with heavy nylon straps.
Alycia was loaded into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the blinding flashes of the paparazzi cameras.
Up in the penthouse, Cole pressed a button on his desk. The security feed on the wall monitor went black.
He had finally, permanently removed the parasite from his life.
The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of the VIP hospital corridor, casting long, warm shadows across the linoleum floor.
Vera was leaning against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through her phone, when her eyes drifted to the insulated designer bag sitting a few feet away — the Michelin-starred soup Cole had left behind.
She wrinkled her nose. She pushed herself off the wall, walked over, and picked up the bag with two fingers, holding it away from her body as though it were radioactive.
She marched down the hall to the utility room, lifted the heavy lid of the biohazard bin, and dropped the thousand-dollar meal inside. The lid slammed shut with a satisfying metallic thud.
“Trash belongs in the trash,” Vera muttered to herself.
She turned and headed back toward June’s room. Just as she reached the door, the elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
Vera glanced over. Her eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
Easton stepped off the elevator.
He looked completely different from the ruthless, armored predator who had stormed out a few hours earlier. He had changed clothes — a soft, heather-gray cashmere sweater that hugged the broad lines of his shoulders, paired with dark, relaxed trousers. The sharp, intimidating aura of the Wall Street lawyer was entirely gone. He looked warm, approachable, and unexpectedly domestic.
In his uninjured left hand, he carried a plain, unbranded stainless-steel thermos.
Vera crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, blocking his path with a highly amused smirk.
“Well, well,” she drawled, looking him up and down. “The great Easton Hahn, terror of the federal courts, reduced to a delivery boy. What’s in the thermos? Did you threaten a chef at gunpoint p>
Easton stopped in front of her. He did not rise to the bait. His expression was perfectly calm, but his eyes held a deep, quiet intensity.
“Restaurant food is loaded with sodium and preservatives,” he said simply. “Her stomach is empty and her system is in shock. She needs something clean p>