Chapter 125
Chapter 125:
“Get your hands off me!” Elouise shrieked, kicking as they pulled her backward into the hallway. “Jocelyn! You will pay for this! Kieran will destroy you p>
Jocelyn watched as her mother was escorted down the corridor, screaming curses that turned heads from every open doorway. Staff peered out, eyes wide, silent.
The elevator doors closed, cutting off the noise.
Jocelyn shut her office door. She leaned her back against it — and then her legs gave way, and she slid slowly down the wood until she was sitting on the floor.
She pressed her fingers to her cheek. It throbbed, already swelling. She did not cry. She sat in the silence, breathing steadily in and out, feeling the strange, terrifying lightness of becoming an orphan by choice.
Jocelyn wore oversized sunglasses and a silk scarf wrapped high around her neck as she walked to her car in the parking garage. The concrete pillars cast long shadows across the dark, empty floor.
𝖴𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗈𝗇
Her cheek throbbed with every heartbeat. She kept her head down.
Uncle Vincent stepped out from behind a pillar. He was smoking a cigarette, its cherry glowing red in the gloom.
“You embarrassed your mother,” he said, his voice raspy.
Jocelyn didn’t break her stride. “She assaulted me. Be glad I didn’t press charges p>
Vincent caught the edge of the bruise peeking out from beneath her sunglasses. He flinched — just slightly. A flicker of something crossed his face, perhaps shame, but he buried it quickly.
“You are playing a dangerous game, niece,” he warned, dropping the cigarette butt and grinding it under his heel. “The family sticks together. You are cutting yourself off p>
“The game is over, Vincent. Get out of my way,” she said, unlocking her car.
She got in and slammed the door, locking it immediately. She drove off, leaving him standing in the exhaust fumes — a dinosaur watching the meteor fall.
Later that evening, the grand ballroom of The Pierre Hotel was in full swing. The Arts for New York gala was a crush of socialites and tycoons, all bathed in the cascading light of crystal chandeliers. Waiters moved like ghosts through the crowd, carrying trays of champagne.
Gaston Collins entered the room alone. He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, moving through the crowd with a predatory ease that made people step aside without quite knowing why.
Camera flashes popped like lightning. He ignored them. His eyes swept the room, cataloging faces, noting exits, searching for the source of the unease that had been prickling at the back of his neck all evening. He had told Jocelyn to skip tonight. Something felt off — an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t name.
Kieran Douglas was stationed near the bar with a severe-looking woman in a pantsuit who was clearly a senior member of his legal team. He spotted Gaston the moment he entered. His jaw tightened.
Gaston noticed. He raised his champagne glass in a slow, mocking toast.
Kieran handed his drink to his associate and crossed the room. He couldn’t stop himself — his ego demanded confrontation.