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Chapter 714:

“Better than Michelin,” he said. “Because you made it. Because we made it. Together p>

June felt her eyes sting. She squeezed his hand, hard, and picked up her fork.

They ate. The clock ticked toward three. Outside, the city slept—or didn’t—the eternal hum of Manhattan pressing against the windows.

“Richard’s going to fight,” Easton said, somewhere between bites. “The acquisition. He’s got nothing left to lose p>

“Let him.” June’s voice was soft, absolute. “I’ve been fighting him for ten years. This is just the final round p>

𝘙𝘦a𝖽 𝖿𝗋ee n𝗈𝗏e𝗅s 𝗼ո

“You’re not alone anymore p>

She looked at him. At the shadows under his eyes, the determination in his jaw, the absolute, terrifying gentleness of his gaze.

“I know,” she whispered.

They finished eating. Easton cleared the plates, loaded the dishwasher with the efficiency of someone who had lived alone and learned to manage. June watched him, her hip against the counter, her arms wrapped around herself.

He dried his hands. Checked his watch.

“I should go p>

June’s stomach dropped. She nodded, forced her face to neutral, to accepting, to the performance she had perfected over years of being left.

“Of course. It’s late. You have p>

“June.” He was in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I want to—” he stopped, swallowed, “—I want to wake up with you. Tomorrow. And the day after. But I won’t push. I won’t take what you haven’t offered. So I’m going to walk out that door, and I’m going to call you in the morning, and I’m going to hope p>

“Easton p>

He stopped.

“Thank you,” she said. “For tonight. For the plan. For—” she gestured, helpless, at the kitchen, the plates, the space between them that felt like everything, “—for this p>

He smiled. That terrifying, beautiful smile. “Anytime, June. Salt and all p>

He left her at the elevator. She watched the doors close, watched the numbers descend, felt the apartment settle around her like a too-large coat.

She was turning toward the bedroom when her phone buzzed.

A text. Unknown number.

He just left. 2:47 AM. Tie loose. Shirt untucked. Tell me, June—what exactly were you doing that required him to dress in the dark?

She stared at the screen. The words blurred, refocused, burned into her retinas.

Not Crawford. The number was wrong, the tone different, the particular venom of someone who had lost everything and had nothing left but observation.

She walked to the window. Looked down, twelve stories, to the street below.

A black Maybach sat at the curb, illegally parked by a fire hydrant. The driver’s window was down, a cigarette glowing orange in the darkness.

And in the back seat, barely visible, a figure watched her building with the absolute stillness of a predator who had been waiting for hours.

Cole.

June’s hand found the window frame. Her fingers tightened until the metal cut into her palm, until the pain anchored her, until she could breathe again.

She watched the car. Watched the cigarette flare, die, flare again.