Chapter 441
“`
– For each row, replace every instance of “Chapter 441” with “Chapter N” (where N is that row’s chapter number). Do not alter any other text, HTML attributes, or formatting.
Chapter 441:
Bella: Translation: he wants my father’s campaign money. I want to stab myself with this oyster fork.
Jocelyn let out a bright, uninhibited laugh. The sound carried over the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves.
Gaston shifted his weight on the plush linen lounger, his heavy, muscular arm tightening possessively around Jocelyn’s bare waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the glowing screen in her hand.
He didn’t ask for permission. Gaston simply reached out and plucked the phone right out of her fingers.
“Hey!” Jocelyn protested, turning her head.
Gaston ignored her. His thumb moved across the digital keyboard with terrifying, ruthless speed as he typed a single, brutal response into the group chat.
Jocelyn (sent by Gaston): Tell the Senator that his proposed infrastructure bill has a negative ROI of twelve percent, and if he doesn’t stop begging for Douglas PAC money, the Collins Group will short the municipal bonds in his home state by Tuesday. Enjoy your oysters.
Gaston hit send and tossed the phone back onto Jocelyn’s stomach.
𝖴𝗽𝖽𝖺𝘁еѕ е𝘃𝖾𝗋𝘆 𝗐𝗲𝖾𝗄 𝘰ո ѕ.𝘤o𝘮
For ten agonizing seconds, the group chat sat completely dead. The typing bubble didn’t even appear.
Then Bella sent a single, massive emoji of a person bowing down in absolute worship.
Bella: My god, Jocelyn, this is absolutely Gaston’s doing! Tell your husband that his toxic Wall Street mouth is the greatest weapon on earth. The Senator literally just choked on his wine.
Jocelyn burst into laughter again. The sheer, arrogant power of her husband was intoxicating. She grabbed her phone, locked the screen, and twisted her body around. Tilting her head up, she bit down playfully on the sharp curve of Gaston’s jawline.
Gaston groaned, his hands instantly gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him to savor the last, careless hours of their honeymoon.
Three days later. Manhattan.
The sky over Fifth Avenue was a miserable, freezing gray.
Gaston Collins pushed through the heavy brass doors of the Core Club. He wore a flawless, bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his face a mask of cold, impenetrable stone. The relaxed, sun-kissed husband from St. Barts was completely gone. The Wall Street predator had returned.
He was here for a highly classified, off-the-books meeting with three executives from the European Central Bank.
Gaston walked past the maître d’ without a word and stepped into the exclusive, dimly lit cigar lounge at the back of the club. The air was thick with the smell of old money and burning tobacco. He sat down in a private, high-backed leather booth.
He clipped the end of a Cohiba cigar, struck a long wooden match, and inhaled. Thick smoke curled around his sharp features.
Suddenly, a scent cut through the heavy tobacco haze: the sharp, clinical smell of medical-grade sanitizer, heavily masked by an expensive, cloying salon perfume.
Gaston’s jaw tightened instantly. He didn’t even turn his head.
Dr. Chloe Monroe walked right up to his booth. She wore a tight, emerald-green silk blouse unbuttoned one fraction too low, and she held a martini glass by its delicate stem.