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Chapter 613
Chapter 613:
He collapsed to the floor — not gracefully, not dramatically, but simply as if the bones had dissolved from his legs. He landed hard on the carpet, his hands pressed to his face, and the sound that emerged was not entirely human. It was the sound of a man being unmade, of every belief he had held about himself, about her, about the possibility of redemption, being torn out by the roots.
“Every time I see you with another man,” he gasped, the words barely coherent through his sobs, “even just a glance in a news photo — it feels like a hot poker twisting in my gut. I see you look at them and I know you have never once looked at me that way p>
He looked up at her, his face ruined, his eyes streaming.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I know I don’t deserve to. I know I destroyed everything. But I love you. I’ve loved you since p>
The phone on June’s desk rang.
She turned away from him, walked to the desk, and picked up the receiver with steady hands.
𝗖𝘩i𝗻е𝘀𝘦 𝗇𝘰𝘃𝘦𝗹𝘴 t𝗿аո𝗌𝘭a𝘁е𝖽 𝗼𝘯
“Dr. Erickson p>
The voice on the other end was panicked, breathless. “It’s Mrs. Lynch. From the Hamptons estate. There’s been a fire. The west wing — the gardens — please, you have to come. Mrs. Compton is asking for you. She’s — she’s not well p>
June’s grip tightened on the receiver.
She looked down at Cole, still crumpled on her floor, still weeping, still reaching for her with hands that had never learned to give, only to take.
“Get up,” she said.
Her voice had changed — not softer, simply more urgent.
“Your grandmother needs you p>
They drove in silence.
Cole’s hands gripped the steering wheel of his Mercedes with white-knuckled force, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw working as if he were chewing through words he couldn’t bring himself to say.
June sat in the passenger seat, her phone in her lap, her fingers moving in rapid patterns across the screen. She was coordinating, delegating, ensuring that her work at Apex Bio would continue without her. She did not look at him. She did not speak to him.
The Hamptons estate rose against the darkening sky — the east wing illuminated by emergency lights, the west wing a blackened skeleton against the stars. Fire trucks lined the circular drive. Uniformed men moved with practiced efficiency, rolling hoses, checking for hotspots, securing the perimeter.
Cole was out of the car before it had fully stopped, sprinting toward the main house, his coat flapping behind him.
June followed at a measured pace.
She found Mrs. Lynch on the front steps, her face pale but composed.
“Dr. Erickson. Thank God. She’s in the master suite. She refused treatment until she spoke with you p>
“And the fire p>
“Contained. The west wing gardens — an electrical fault in the greenhouse heating system. No injuries, but the rose garden is—” Mrs. Lynch’s voice caught. “It’s gone. Forty years of cultivation. Mrs. Compton’s mother’s roses p>
June nodded and walked into the house.
Cole was already upstairs. She could hear his voice through an open door, high and panicked, demanding answers about his grandmother’s health. She climbed the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister.