Chapter 613
Chapter 612:
He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed, pulling Jocelyn close, his arm a heavy, protective weight around her shoulders. “Don’t look at the comments,” he murmured against her hair.
Less than an hour later, his phone buzzed. An encrypted email. Gaston read the single-page report, and a cold, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth.
He turned the screen toward Jocelyn. “Look who’s playing games p>
The report was concise. The original image file had been sent from an anonymous email address routed through a seven-layer proxy network. The digital forensics section read: “While the proxies were professional-grade, they left a faint anomalous energy signature on one of the Icelandic servers. We have a 95% confidence trace leading directly to the primary server at Vanderbilt PR p>
Chelsea Vanderbilt.
Jocelyn stared at the name. A wave of hot, sharp anger swept in behind the fear. Chelsea’s saccharine smile and condescending tone from the other day surfaced immediately. This wasn’t jealousy. It was a calculated attack.
Gaston stood and walked to the window, his back to her, his silhouette hard and unyielding against the bright morning sky. “Chelsea Vanderbilt wants a war,” he said, his voice quiet but lethal. “She thinks she can use the press to hurt you. She thinks she understands how this world works p>
He turned back, his eyes glittering. “She doesn’t. She’s playing with matches in a powder room p>
He picked up his phone and dialed his brother. “Justin. The leak is a sideshow — a Vanderbilt brat. I’m handling it. How is the PAC situation?” He listened, his jaw tightening. “Good. Keep pressing. I’m cauterizing this wound on my end. Talk soon p>
He hung up and dialed another number. “Get me the editor-in-chief of the New York Post,” he said. “I have an exclusive. It’s about Chelsea Vanderbilt’s husband — the pillar of society — and his little internship program p>
о𝘳𝗀𝖺ո𝗶𝘇𝖾 𝘆𝗼ur 𝗅𝗂b𝗿а𝘳𝗒 o𝗇 ѕ.𝖼𝗼m
He paused, letting the silence on the other end stretch.
“I want high-resolution photographs,” Gaston continued, his voice smooth as silk. “I want text messages. Dates, times, and hotel receipts. And I want it published today p>
He ended the call and looked at Jocelyn, his expression softening by a fraction.
“She tried to burn your house down,” he said. “I’m going to burn hers to the ground p>
Jocelyn sat on the sofa, her leg bouncing nervously. Gaston sat beside her, his posture relaxed, his hand resting casually on her knee. He checked his watch.
“Three minutes,” he said.
Jocelyn gripped her phone, the screen locked on the New York Post’s Twitter feed. The clock ticked forward. 10:00 AM.
The tweet appeared. It was a bomb.
“EXCLUSIVE: The Vanderbilt Hypocrisy — Husband’s Illicit Affair with Intern Exposed in High-Def p>
Three photographs accompanied the post. The first: Chelsea’s husband pressing a young woman against a hotel room door, his mouth on hers. The second: the same woman holding her phone up, the screen clearly showing a text with a heart and a room number. The third: a close-up of the man’s hand on the woman’s waist, his gold wedding band catching the light.
The internet detonated.