Chapter 266
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Chapter 266:
“Chloe has hated Jocelyn ever since she was fired from the hotel,” Aspen continued, her voice suddenly steady and calculating. “She had access to the gala. She knew the floor manager. We can say she did it to ruin Jocelyn’s event out of spite p>
A sharp crack shattered the silence.
Elouise had dropped her teacup. It struck the edge of the glass coffee table and shattered onto the Persian rug, the cold brown liquid soaking into the expensive wool.
Aspen turned her head slowly toward her mother. There was no warmth in her eyes — only a look of pure, impatient malice.
𝗠o𝘴𝗍 𝗿𝖾𝗮𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗶𝘴 we𝗲𝘬 𝗈𝗇.сom
Elouise felt a sharp, physical pain in her chest.
Robert didn’t spare a glance for the broken cup. He picked up his phone and began dialing his legal team.
“Start drafting the narrative,” he barked into the receiver. “We need to manufacture a money trail between Chloe and the floor manager. Find a motive p>
Aspen ignored her parents entirely. She picked up her own phone and pressed a speed dial number. She cleared her throat — and instantly, tears welled in her eyes. Her voice trembled with practiced perfection as the voicemail beeped.
“Kieran, baby, it’s me. I’m so scared. My parents are yelling at me. Jocelyn set me up — she manipulated everything. Please call me back. I need you p>
Across the city, the air in the Manhattan private hospital smelled of sterile alcohol and fresh lilies. The fireworks from the Collins estate felt like a lifetime ago. The victory had been bright, explosive, and painfully brief — one phone call had shattered it all, pulling Jocelyn from the pinnacle of her triumph into the cold, sterile reality of this room.
Jocelyn sat in a plastic chair beside the hospital bed, holding a small paring knife and carefully peeling a red apple. The skin came off in one long, unbroken ribbon. It was a nervous habit, something to occupy her hands while the doctor’s words played on a merciless loop in her head: A severe stroke… massive cerebral hemorrhage… we’ve stabilized her, but she’s in a deep coma.
The heavy door pushed open.
Gaston walked in carrying a sleek paper bag from a Michelin-starred restaurant. He had removed his tie, though his dark tailored suit was otherwise immaculate.
Jocelyn looked up. The tight, defensive posture of her shoulders instantly softened. A small, genuine smile touched her lips and reached her eyes.
Gaston set the bag on the side table, then stepped behind her chair and leaned forward to look at the sleeping woman in the bed. His large, warm hand came to rest naturally on Jocelyn’s shoulder, his thumb tracing a slow circle against her collarbone. The contact sent a wave of grounding warmth through her, quieting the nervous flutter in her stomach.
A sharp knock interrupted the quiet. Dr. Evans, the lead neurologist, stepped inside. His expression was taut, and he carried a fresh stack of CT scan reports.
Jocelyn was on her feet before she realized she’d stood. The chair wobbled behind her. The knife slipped. The long apple peel snapped and fell into the plastic trash bin.
“What is it?” she asked. Her throat felt tight.