Chapter 604

Chapter 603:

The security chief — a former Mossad agent — blinked. This was beyond presidential-level protection. This was fortress protocol. He simply nodded. “Consider it done, sir p>

In the sunroom, Jocelyn was working through a series of gentle prenatal stretches with her yoga instructor, entirely unaware of the invisible shield of steel being erected around her.

Gaston walked in, his face a mask of easy, affectionate calm. He knelt beside her and adjusted a cushion behind her back.

“Just thinking we could be a little safer, my love,” he said with a disarming smile.

He didn’t mention Richard. He wouldn’t let the ugliness of the outside world touch her — not while she was carrying his child.

In a hospital bed in Brooklyn, a plaster cast encasing his arm, Richard Stein felt the throbbing pain as a constant, burning reminder of everything that had gone wrong. His sister’s betrayal, the terror of the loan sharks, the humiliation of his failed performance — it all coalesced, narrowing to a single, scorching point of pure, unadulterated hatred.

It was her fault. All of it. If Jocelyn hadn’t been so selfish, so cold, none of this would have happened.

With his good hand, he reached for a second burner phone on the bedside table. His fingers trembled as he dialed. When the line connected, his voice came out as a twisted rasp of pain and venom.

“I have a plan,” he said. “About my niece p>

A few days later, Jocelyn found herself in a sun-drenched, impossibly chic lounge on the Upper East Side — a high-end maternity club of soft lighting, organic juices, and hushed, wealthy conversation. The first group filming session for The Collins Heir was officially underway.

Three other women were already there, all impeccably dressed, all visibly pregnant, all daughters or wives of New York’s old-money dynasties. They were the supporting cast in the Jocelyn Collins show.

𝗗𝘰n’𝘁 𝗆𝘪ѕs ո𝗲𝗐 𝗿e𝗅𝘦𝖺𝗌е𝗌 o𝗇

Jocelyn’s arrival silenced the room. Her quiet grace, combined with the commanding aura of the Collins name, set her apart immediately. Two of the women — a sharp-witted doctor and a warm, elegant lawyer — greeted her with genuine friendliness.

The third watched her with eyes full of undisguised hostility.

Chelsea Vanderbilt. Her name was a New York institution, synonymous with railroad fortunes and Gilded Age society. She was accustomed to being the center of every room she entered and had fully expected to be the undisputed star of the show. Jocelyn’s sudden, explosive fame had eclipsed her completely.

Before the scheduled parenting lecture began, the women gathered for afternoon tea, the cameras rolling discreetly.

Chelsea lifted her porcelain teacup with movements that were slow and deliberately condescending. “Miss Wolfe,” she began, her voice coated in saccharine sweetness. “Oh, forgive me — it’s Mrs. Collins now, isn’t it? How wonderful for you. Marrying into the family and securing an heir so quickly. Such… clever work p>

The insult was transparent — a thinly veiled suggestion that Jocelyn was nothing more than a gold-digging incubator.