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Chapter 655
Chapter 655:
“He’ll do more than run,” Alycia whispered, her hand moving to her bandaged abdomen. The pain was constant now, real and insistent, a reminder of everything her father’s rage had taken from her. “He’ll destroy himself trying to make it right. And while he’s drowning—” her eyes drifted to the window, to the Manhattan skyline glittering with indifferent wealth “—we’ll take whatever’s left p>
At the top of Compton Tower, the envelope landed on Cole’s desk with a soft, almost delicate thud. His chief of staff stepped back as if it were something volatile.
Cole didn’t need to open it. The sheer theatricality of the act was its own message. He picked up a letter opener, slit the envelope with surgical precision, and let the paper fragments spill across the polished mahogany. A torn signature line from the exile agreement. A piece of the check bearing the words “Two Hundred Million p>
“The message delivered with it was specific, sir,” his chief of staff said carefully. “The Compton family owes Caleb a life. She doesn’t want the money. She wants him to spend the rest of his life paying p>
Cole’s fist closed on the desk. The bandages from the Hamptons fire spotted with fresh blood. He had tried to excise the Beasley problem cleanly, permanently. She had thrown it back in his face.
“She thinks she can keep her claws in me by invoking my brother’s name,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, controlled growl. “She thinks I’m still the man who believed her p>
He straightened. “Get me everything on the Beasleys. Financials, phone records, every secret they’ve buried. And the doctor who signed that report — Dr. Finch. I want to know every mistake he’s ever made. Every vulnerability he has p>
“The obstetrician, sir p>
“By sunrise,” Cole said. “I want him broken by sunrise p>
𝗥e𝘢𝘥 𝖿𝘳𝘦e n𝘰𝗏e𝗅ѕ o𝗻
He moved to the window and looked down at the city below. He had tried to resolve this with money. That had been the wrong instrument entirely. This wasn’t a negotiation — it was a war. And Alycia had just reminded him that he knew how to fight one.
His phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at the screen.
Then he went very still.
The message read: Alycia Beasley. Presbyterian Hospital rooftop. Suicide threat. Demanding your immediate presence. Media alerted.
The timing was too precise, too perfectly calibrated to be anything other than desperation. Something had forced her hand — some pressure he wasn’t yet aware of. This wasn’t a long game. This was a cornered woman making the only move she had left.
He saw the trap clearly. He stepped toward it anyway.
His fingers tightened around the phone until the case creaked.
Forty minutes to the hospital in evening traffic. The media already assembling. The PR catastrophe that would follow if she actually jumped. The leverage she would hold over him if he failed to appear.
“Presbyterian,” he said, his voice absolutely flat, striding toward the door. “Now p>
He didn’t look back at the shredded paper on his desk. He was walking into her theater, and he despised her for forcing him to. But he moved with the cold, certain knowledge of a man who intended to burn the entire stage to the ground.
The Maybach’s interior was a tomb of black leather and silence.