Chapter 282
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Chapter 282:
Kieran did not hesitate. He reached up, grabbed the knot of his silk tie, and ripped it from his neck. He dropped it on the floor.
“Do it,” Kieran said.
He turned and walked toward the door, his spine completely straight. For the first time in his life, the crushing weight of the Douglas empire had lifted from his shoulders.
His secretary rushed forward in the hallway, clutching a stack of urgent acquisition files. Kieran pushed past her. The papers scattered across the carpet.
He stepped into his private elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. The stainless steel doors slid shut.
Kieran leaned against the cold metal wall and stared at his reflection. He looked like a dead man. The regret in his chest was a living, clawing thing.
𝘖𝗋g𝗮𝗻і𝗓𝗲 yо𝘂𝘳 𝗅𝘪𝖻rа𝘳y on 𝗴𝘢𝗹ոо𝗏𝘦𝘭𝗌.с𝗼𝗆
He pulled out his phone. His fingers shook as he dialed Jocelyn’s number again.
A busy signal. She still had him completely blocked.
He opened his social media app and found her profile. She had posted an update three minutes ago — a photo of two coffee cups with intricate latte art resting on a glass table, the Manhattan skyline bright and sunlit in the background.
He zoomed in on the edge of the frame. Beside one of the cups rested a man’s arm, the crisp white cuff of a tailored dress shirt visible alongside the edge of a heavy platinum watch.
A wave of pure, toxic jealousy flooded through him, burning his throat.
Across the city, morning sun poured over the massive balcony of the Collins penthouse.
Jocelyn set her phone face down on the glass table and picked up her coffee. The hot liquid burned her tongue, but she welcomed the small, grounding pain.
She was trying to act relaxed. She was trying to pretend that Gaston’s words from the night before had not completely upended her understanding of their arrangement.
Gaston sat across from her in soft grey sweatpants and a casual white t-shirt, looking entirely too comfortable. He was reading the Wall Street Journal, his dark eyes moving steadily across the financial columns.
“Did you post that photo just to make a certain ex-boyfriend angry?” Gaston asked, without looking up.
Jocelyn choked on her coffee. Her cheeks flushed a deep, immediate red.
“I just thought the latte art looked nice,” she said. Her voice came out too high.
Gaston lowered the newspaper slowly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the glass table, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
“If you want to make him angry,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, unhurried pitch, “I can provide much more intimate material for your next post p>
Jocelyn’s heart skipped a beat. She looked away, fixing her gaze firmly on the Manhattan skyline.
“That will not be necessary,” she said stiffly.
Gaston let out a soft, mocking chuckle and did not press the point. Instead, he reached across the table. Jocelyn’s half-eaten croissant sat on a small porcelain plate. He picked it up, held her gaze, brought the pastry to his mouth, and took a deliberate bite exactly where her lipstick had left a faint pink mark.