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Chapter 630
Chapter 630:
“If you scream now,” June said, “if you call for help and claim I attacked you, this recording goes to the Times, the Post, the Journal — every gossip blog and legal database in the country.” The smile returned, and this time it held something almost warm. “They will know you tried to frame me for assault. They will know you faked a pregnancy. They will know exactly what you are p>
She stepped forward. One step. Two. She stood over Alycia, looking down at the woman who had stolen her work, her marriage, her peace. Then she crouched, bringing her face level with Alycia’s, her voice dropping to barely a whisper.
“Get up. Fix your dress and go back inside. Or stay here and cry. I don’t care. But understand this — the next time you come for me, I won’t be recording. I’ll be finished p>
She straightened, turned, and walked back toward the ballroom doors. Her heels clicked against the stone — sharp, final, unhurried.
Behind her, Alycia scrambled to her feet. Her face was streaked with makeup and genuine tears now, her hands shaking as she tried to smooth her dress. She looked at the terrace steps, at the empty garden, at the doors through which June had already disappeared.
D𝗼𝘸𝗻𝗅о𝖺𝖽 P𝗗𝘍s f𝘳𝗲𝖾 𝘰𝗻
She ran.
June paused just inside the curtains and checked her phone, tucked in her clutch.
A message from Archer. A photograph, self-destructing in ten seconds.
Susan Beasley. Underground parking. Level B2.
The corner of June’s mouth lifted.
She pushed through the curtains and returned to the party.
The air in the B2 level of The Pierre was different.
It was dimmer and colder than the upper floors, smelling of concrete and exhaust, of the particular dampness that came from being underground, of the expensive leather and carpet shampoo that tried — and failed — to mask these facts. The lighting was purely functional: fluorescent tubes that hummed and flickered, casting everything in shades of gray.
Susan Beasley walked quickly, her heels clicking against the painted concrete floor. Her phone was in her hand, the screen displaying a map, a blinking dot, and a message that had arrived twelve minutes ago.
“Parking spot 47. The black car p>
She had not hesitated. She had not thought. She had simply moved — out of the ballroom, down the service stairs, through the door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” that she had watched a waiter prop open with a crate of champagne.
The B2 level was mostly occupied by service vans and the private cars of hotel staff, leaving large, isolated patches of empty concrete. Down here, the long-term parkers and service vehicles kept their own company. The occasional staff member passed between levels. Otherwise, silence.
And the black Mercedes-Maybach S650, parked in the corner where a structural column blocked the security camera’s line of sight.
Susan approached slowly. The rear door was ajar, the interior light casting a warm glow across the leather seats. She could see him — Archer — reclined against the far door, legs stretched out, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the hard planes of his chest. He looked up as she approached. His green eyes caught the light and seemed to glow with their own luminescence.
Message from Noa: Nice and beautiful morning for you dear readers, have a great time. God loves you and Noa wishes you all the best. /