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Chapter 610
Chapter 610:
At six-fifteen in the morning, three refrigerated semi-trucks pulled up to the curb. The drivers, wearing matching uniforms bearing a logo he didn’t recognize, began unloading pallets with mechanical efficiency.
Of roses.
Not bouquets. Not arrangements. Tons of roses.
The white petals spilled from the trucks in an endless cascade, filling the plaza, flowing up the steps, pressing against the glass lobby doors. The scent was overwhelming — cloying, sweet enough to make his eyes water. By seven, the entire ground floor was impassable. A sea of white that rose to knee-height in places, crunching underfoot like fresh snow, releasing clouds of perfume thick enough to taste.
𝘙𝘦с𝗼𝘮𝘮𝖾𝘯d 𝘵𝗈 𝘆𝗼𝗎r f𝗋i𝖾𝗻𝗱ѕ
June stood at her office window on the fourteenth floor, looking down at the destruction of her company’s entrance. Her face showed nothing. She recognized the variety immediately — Ecuadorian Snow Mountain White, the rarest cultivar, grown only at altitude, with petals so delicate they bruised at a touch.
Her assistant Abbie burst through the door, her face flushed with panic.
“Dr. Erickson! The lobby — there are trucks — someone sent p>
“I see them.” June’s voice was flat. She did not turn from the window.
“Should I call the police? Security can’t get through, the doors are blocked, and the smell is making people sick p>
“Call a waste management company.” June finally turned. Her eyes were chips of arctic ice. “Tell them we have industrial garbage requiring immediate removal. Bill all costs to Compton Group. Reference the account number from the restraining order filings p>
Abbie blinked. “You want them to throw away the roses? All of them? These must be worth p>
“I don’t care what they’re worth.” June’s voice did not rise. It simply grew colder, each word more precise than the last. “They are garbage. Treat them as such p>
She turned back to the window.
Within the hour, the trucks arrived. Men in hazmat suits began shoveling the roses into industrial dumpsters, compacting the petals with the same efficiency they would apply to rotting food or medical waste. The last of the white blooms disappeared by nine-thirty.
June watched the final dumpster pull away from the curb. She felt nothing — not anger, not satisfaction, simply the absence of disturbance, as if a fly had been swatted from her peripheral vision. She turned to her desk, to the work that mattered, to the data that would change the world.
At eleven, her intercom buzzed.
“Dr. Erickson? There’s a representative from Harry Winston here. He says he has a delivery. For you. Personally p>
June’s hand paused over her keyboard.
“Send him up p>
The man who entered her office wore a suit that cost more than most cars. A briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. Two security guards flanked him, their eyes constantly moving, assessing threats. He placed the briefcase on her desk with ceremonial precision, produced a key from an inner pocket, unlocked the handcuffs, and stepped back.
“Ms. Erickson. Mr. Cole Compton asked me to deliver this into your hands personally, and to wait for your response p>
He opened the case.