Chapter 368
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Chapter 368:
The moment Victoria stepped out of the attic and the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from her face.
She pulled a sanitizing wet wipe from her designer purse and scrubbed her hands with aggressive thoroughness, her expression contorted in absolute disgust, as though Elouise’s misfortune were a contagious disease.
She walked down to her massive, climate-controlled walk-in closet and ran her fingers slowly along rows of haute couture. She paused at a vintage, plunging burgundy velvet gown. Her lips curled into a cold, calculating smirk.
Across the city, at the absolute pinnacle of Manhattan luxury.
𝖱𝘦𝘢𝗱 𝗍𝘩𝖾 l𝖺𝗍𝗲s𝘵 𝘵reո𝗱𝘀 оn
Jocelyn walked out of the massive marble bathroom of the Collins penthouse wearing a short white silk robe, her wet hair clinging to her neck and dripping water onto her collarbones.
Gaston was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, reviewing a legal document on his tablet. The moment he heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor, he set the tablet down. His dark, heavy gaze locked onto her.
Jocelyn walked to the vanity and reached for a towel.
Gaston stood and crossed the room behind her, taking the towel from her hands. His massive chest pressed lightly against her back as he began gently, methodically drying her wet hair.
Jocelyn watched his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were entirely focused on taking care of her — the terrifying Wall Street titan, reduced to her devoted caretaker.
“There is an Ivy League Alumni Gala next Friday,” Jocelyn said casually, leaning back into his solid warmth. “Do you want to come with me p>
Gaston dropped the towel. He wrapped both hands around her waist and pulled her flush against his body, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
His lips pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her pulse point.
“How could I possibly refuse an invitation from Mrs. Collins?” Gaston murmured, his deep voice vibrating directly against her skin.
Friday night. The Yale Club in Midtown Manhattan was a fortress of old money and Ivy League elitism.
The street outside was lined with black SUVs, paparazzi held at bay behind heavy velvet ropes.
Gaston’s armored Maybach glided to a smooth stop at the curb. The doorman rushed forward and pulled the heavy door open.
Gaston stepped out first, wearing a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look terrifyingly massive. He turned and offered his hand into the dark cabin.
Jocelyn placed her hand in his and stepped out into the flashing lights.
She wore a custom midnight-blue haute couture gown, the silk clinging to her curves like liquid. Resting against her collarbones was the legendary Queen Marie’s antique diamond necklace that Gaston had acquired for her at a private auction. The historic stones caught the camera flashes and threw blinding prisms of light across the pavement.
Gaston wrapped his arm tightly around her waist — a grip that was less gesture than declaration. He guided her up the steps, his body acting as a shield against the chaos.