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Chapter 634
Chapter 634:
She gasped. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred, then cleared, revealing the wreckage through a haze of steam and smoke. The Maybach had moved two meters, maybe three, shoved sideways by the force of the collision. Its rear door was crushed inward, the frame bent, the window a constellation of shattered glass. The interior light still glowed, casting strange shadows through the rising steam.
June fumbled for her seatbelt. She had to move. Had to be out of the car, away from the scene, before —
The driver’s door opened.
She turned, ready to fight, and found Crawford Love’s face inches from hers.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice was a snarl, stripped of all civilization. “Or just imprisoned p>
He reached across her, his body pressing hers back against the seat, and unbuckled the belt. His hands were rough and efficient as he pulled her from the car with no regard for her balance or dignity.
She stumbled. He caught her. He pushed her against the concrete column, his body shielding her from the sightline of anyone who might enter the garage.
“Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t speak.” He turned toward the wreckage and raised his voice. “Marcus p>
A man materialized from the shadows — tall, broad, wearing a suit that did nothing to disguise his professional purpose. He moved to Crawford’s side and assessed the scene with trained efficiency.
“Get in the car,” Crawford said, pointing to the Aston Martin, its front end crumpled, steam still rising from the radiator. “You’re injured. You lost control. The brakes failed. Do you understand p>
𝖡𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝖿𝗶𝘳ѕt 𝘵𝗈 𝘳𝘦a𝗱 оn.с𝗈𝗺
Marcus nodded. He walked to the DB5, opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, produced a pocket knife, made a small cut in his palm, and smeared the blood across the steering wheel.
Crawford turned back to June. His face was still furious, but something else moved beneath the anger — fear, perhaps, or the complex calculus of a man who had just committed a felony for a woman who did not love him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
June shoved away from the column, her eyes blazing. “I didn’t ask for your help p>
Crawford’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t helping you,” he said. “I was cleaning up a mess before it stained my city p>
From inside the Maybach came a sound — a scream, high and broken, the voice of a woman in pain and terror and absolute, incomprehensible shock.
Susan.
June pushed past Crawford. She walked to the wall, to the fire alarm in its red metal box, and pulled the handle.
The klaxon was deafening — a sound that overrode everything, that would bring security and firefighters and, eventually, the police. That would bring witnesses.
She turned to the stairwell, pushed through the door, and began to climb, her heels ringing on the metal stairs, her breath fast but controlled.
At the landing between B2 and B1, she stopped. She could hear voices above — confused, alarmed, the gala’s elegant veneer cracking under the intrusion of emergency.
She took a breath. Let it out.
She pushed through the door into the main corridor and began to run toward the ballroom, her face transformed by panic that was entirely performance.
“Help!” she cried. “There’s been an accident — a terrible accident in the garage! Someone’s trapped — please, someone help p>