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Chapter 608
Chapter 608:
Crawford turned back to the monitors. He watched the two heat signatures, his fingers digging crescents into the leather armrests of his chair. He told himself this was protection. This was care. He did not examine the part of himself that recognized it for what it truly was — another cage, another chain, another way to keep her close without her knowledge.
Across the city, in the Hamptons, the Compton estate sat in pre-dawn darkness.
Alycia Beasley stood at the wrought-iron gates, her white Chanel suit immaculate, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair despite the hour. She had been standing there for two hours. The intercom had not responded to her first polite request, nor her second, nor her third, delivered with rising hysteria. Now she simply waited, her hand pressed to her stomach in the universal gesture of maternal protection, rehearsing the speech she would deliver to Eleanor Compton.
The gates remained closed.
At six-thirty, Mrs. Lynch emerged from the main house and walked down the long gravel drive with unhurried steps, her face a mask of professional neutrality. She stopped three feet from the gates. She did not open them.
“Mrs. Compton will not be receiving visitors today,” she said. Her voice carried clearly through the morning air.
Alycia’s smile faltered. “But I need to see her. It’s urgent. I’m carrying the Compton heir. She needs to know p>
“Mrs. Compton is aware of your claim,” Mrs. Lynch interrupted, her tone unchanged. “She has instructed me to inform you that the Compton family does not recognize bloodlines of questionable provenance p>
Alycia’s face went white.
“She also instructed me to remind you,” Mrs. Lynch continued, “that the estate is private property. Your presence here constitutes trespassing. The authorities have been notified p>
She turned and walked back toward the house, her footsteps crunching steadily on the gravel.
W𝗲𝗲kl𝘆 𝗿е𝘭e𝗮s𝖾𝗌 o𝘯 ѕ.𝖼𝗈𝗆
Alycia stared after her. Her hands began to shake. She opened her mouth to scream, to threaten, to beg — but the sound of approaching sirens cut through her thoughts. She stumbled backward, her heel catching in the gravel, and nearly fell.
From the second-floor terrace, Eleanor Compton watched the scene unfold on her tablet, the live feed from the gate security cameras rendering Alycia’s humiliation in high definition.
She had suspected for weeks. The timing was too convenient. The symptoms too performative. The medical records too polished. Now she was certain.
She picked up the secure line to the family’s chief legal counsel.
“I want everything,” she said. Her voice was iron. “Every appointment at Mount Sinai. Every ultrasound image. Every blood test. I want the original digital files, not copies. I want metadata. I want chain of custody documentation p>
She paused, her eyes fixed on the screen where Alycia was now being escorted to a waiting patrol car by uniformed officers.
“Use our seats on the hospital board. Use whatever connections are necessary. I want proof of fraud by week’s end. Not suspicion. Proof p>
She ended the call and did not look away from the screen until Alycia’s car had disappeared down the long drive.
In the VIP suite at The Underworld, June was unaware of either surveillance operation.