[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 821:
“It’s a dead end,” Cole said softly. “Every path. Every option. I’ve tried money, power, begging, threats. None of it touches her. None of it even registers.” He closed his eyes. “Because her heart is already buried. With him. In the snow p>
Cole’s voice grew fainter as he murmured to himself, the alcohol eroding his nerves and pulling him down into a semi-comatose state.
Lucas watched him, utterly intoxicated and broken, and sighed. He knew that any words of comfort would be feeble against the weight of this cruel truth.
He removed his own suit jacket and draped it over Cole’s shivering body, then turned and walked out of the private lounge.
In the corridor outside, Cole’s chief executive assistant was pacing anxiously.
“Mr. Romano, the CEO —” the assistant hurried forward.
“He passed out from intoxication.” Lucas rubbed his temples, his tone heavy. “Take him back. Get a doctor to treat the wound on his cheek p>
“Back to the old mansion upstate?” the assistant asked.
Lucas was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No — take him to the villa in Long Island. That’s where he needs to be right now p>
The assistant understood immediately: it was the marital home where Cole and June had lived after their wedding — and also the place where Cole had kept June confined for three years.
𝖣о𝘸𝗻𝗅𝗼а𝖽 р𝘋Fѕ 𝘧𝘳е𝖾 on
Several security personnel entered the private lounge, lifted the unconscious Cole, and carried him out to the waiting Maybach in the loading dock.
The Maybach crunched up the long gravel drive at dusk. Mrs. Lynch, the housekeeper, stood on the front steps with two junior staff members, her face a mask of professional concern.
“Mr. Compton! What happened? Should I call Dr. Chen p>
Cole waved her off. He climbed out of the car unassisted, though his legs threatened to buckle with every step. The mud on his clothes had dried to a crust that cracked and flaked with each movement.
He walked through the foyer without seeing it — the abstract sculpture June had selected, the vase she had filled with white peonies every Monday. All still in place. All meaningless now.
The staircase was a floating ribbon of white oak. Cole climbed it slowly, one hand on the glass balustrade. His reflection stared back at him from every angle: a ghost, a ghoul, a man who had lost everything, including his own face.
The master bedroom occupied the entire third floor. Cole pushed open the double doors and stopped.
The bed was made. Gray silk sheets — his preferred color — pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter. The other side, her side, was equally perfect. No indentation. No stray hair. No trace that a woman had ever slept there.
Cole crossed to the walk-in closet and pulled the door open with too much force. It bounced off the stopper and swung back, catching his shoulder.
Her side was empty.
The built-in drawers hung open, the hangers scattered like bones. She had taken everything. Not a scarf, not a sock, not a single forgotten earring remained.