Chapter 453
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Chapter 453:
Gaston stared at her. His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths. The fact that she perceived his protection as a threat to her identity wounded him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
“Fine,” he said at last. His voice was like cracked ice. He took a deliberate step back, putting distance between them. “Fight your own war p>
Jocelyn grabbed her laptop from the counter. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight,” she whispered. “I need to work p>
She walked down the hallway and shut the door behind her.
Gaston stood alone in the vast, dark living room, staring at the closed door. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The urge to walk down that hallway, push the door open, and force her to let him help was overwhelming — but he stayed where he was, rooted in the silence, swallowed by the dark.
The morning mist still clung to the perfectly manicured greens of the Shinnecock Hills Golf Club in Long Island.
Jocelyn Wolfe guided a quiet electric golf cart along the edge of the fairway. She wore a crisp white polo shirt, a pleated skirt, and a white visor. Her face was pale from a sleepless night, but her eyes were sharp and completely focused.
She parked near the eighteenth hole.
рo𝗽𝘶𝘭𝘢𝗿 ѕtо𝗋і𝘦𝘴 oո
Standing on the green was Victor Sterling — a ruthless, fifty-year-old Wall Street veteran in a cashmere sweater, currently lining up a crucial fifteen-foot putt. Jocelyn stopped at a respectful distance and held perfectly still, not making a sound.
Victor swung. The white ball rolled smoothly across the wet grass and dropped into the cup with a satisfying clink.
“Excellent read on the green, Mr. Sterling,” Jocelyn said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the morning quiet.
Victor’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed with immediate annoyance — he despised being ambushed on his private time. He raised one hand, and two massive security guards stepped out from behind a line of trees, moving toward her.
Jocelyn didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.
“I am Jocelyn Wolfe,” she said, speaking rapidly but precisely. “Give me exactly three minutes of your time, and I will show you how to generate a three-hundred-percent ROI on a fifty-million-dollar investment within twenty-four months p>
The phrase three-hundred-percent ROI worked like a magic spell.
Victor raised his hand again, stopping the guards in their tracks. In the brutal world of old money, profit always trumped protocol.
“You have three minutes, Ms. Wolfe,” Victor said coldly, leaning on his putter. “Start the clock p>
Jocelyn reached into her golf bag and produced a sleek, encrypted tablet. She walked over and placed it in his hands.
“This is an executive summary for the acquisition of three boutique properties in Paris, Milan, and Rome,” she said, her voice pure business. “The full, unredacted data model — including the off-market tax subsidies I have already secured from the local municipalities — has been sent to your private email. I am here to explain why the risk assessment your sister Isabelle presented to you is fundamentally flawed p>