Chapter 227
Jocelyn looked at their faces, twisted with the particular cruelty of people who needed her to be small. If she said Gaston Collins, they would laugh. They would call her delusional.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
“Let’s go, Bella.” She turned to leave. “The air is toxic here.”
“Running away! Because she’s a liar!” Chad shouted after her. “Go back to your imaginary castle, Princess!”
Jocelyn stopped.
The insult hit a nerve. She was done running. She was done hiding under bleachers.
She pulled out her phone, dialed Gaston, and held it up on speaker for everyone to hear.
“Pick me up. Now. Out front,” she said.
𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌.𝖼𝗈𝗆
“On my way, Mrs. Collins.” Gaston’s voice came through instantly — deep, clear, and carrying the easy authority of a man who had never once doubted his own weight in the world.
She hung up.
“My husband is picking me up,” she said, turning back to face them. “You can see for yourselves.”
“Oh, this I have to see,” Chad rubbed his hands together. “I bet it’s an Uber driver she paid twenty bucks.”
Fiona pulled out her phone to record. Word spread fast through the small crowd that had gathered. Jocelyn Wolfe is about to be exposed. The imaginary husband reveal.
They moved to the front entrance of the school and stood on the curb. The wind whipped Jocelyn’s hair across her face. It was cold.
Several cars passed. A yellow taxi. A black sedan. A beat-up Civic.
“Is that him in the Toyota? Or the Honda?” Fiona mocked.
Jocelyn stood straight, chin up, her eyes fixed on the end of the street.
Please, Gaston. Don’t be late.
Then twin headlights turned the corner — bright, blue-white LEDs that cut through the darkness like lasers. A low purr, deep and guttural, vibrated in the air. It wasn’t the sound of a normal engine.
It was the sound of power.
A midnight blue Aston Martin DBS glided to the curb, moving with the heavy, silent grace of a shark. The paint was so dark it looked like a hole cut in the universe. The custom chrome rims spun slowly to a halt.
The crowd went quiet. The mockery died in their throats.
“Who is that?” someone whispered.
“Probably just a rental,” Fiona sniffed — though her voice wavered.
The driver’s door opened.
Jocelyn held her breath.
Not a uniformed chauffeur. Gaston.
He stepped out, still wearing the midnight blue tuxedo that matched the car exactly, its black satin lapels catching the light. He looked like he had just walked off the set of a James Bond film.
He came around the front of the car without hurrying. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t look at the cameras. He ignored them the way one ignores pigeons on a sidewalk.
He looked only at Jocelyn.
“Ready to go, darling?” he asked. His voice carried through the silence, smooth and unhurried.
He opened the passenger door for her.
.
.