Chapter 47
Chapter 47:
Jocelyn turned to her left. Sitting there was a supplier named Bob — fifty years old, sweating profusely, a piece of spinach stuck in his teeth. He grinned and leaned toward her.
“I’m game if you are, Mrs. Collins,” Bob leered.
Jocelyn recoiled, nausea rising in her throat. “No p>
“You have to!” Aspen squealed. “Those are the rules. Or you drink the penalty p>
𝖡𝘦 𝗉𝘢r𝘵 of 𝗈𝘶r с𝘰𝗺𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝘵𝘺 о𝘯
She pointed to a bottle of cheap, high-proof vodka on the table. “The whole bottle p>
“Or,” Aspen added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “you can ask Kieran for help. Maybe he’ll be your knight in shining armor. Again p>
Jocelyn looked across the fire. Kieran was watching her, swirling his drink. He looked smug — waiting for her to break, waiting for her to crawl back to him and beg for protection.
Beg me, his eyes said. Admit you need me.
Jocelyn looked at the vodka. Then at the leering man. Then at Kieran.
She stood up and grabbed the bottle.
“I’d rather drink poison than ask him for anything,” she said.
She uncorked it. The smell was like rubbing alcohol. She raised it to her lips.
Thwup. Thwup. Thwup.
A low vibration started in the ground. The trees began to tremble.
THWUP. THWUP. THWUP.
The sound swelled to a deafening roar. A gale-force wind blasted through the clearing, scattering sparks from the bonfire and sending the empty wine bottles tumbling.
People screamed, shielding their eyes from the sudden storm of debris.
Above them, a black shape descended from the night sky. A helicopter — sleek, military-grade, with the Collins crest emblazoned in silver on its side.
It hovered over the clearing, its searchlight flooding them all in white.
The helicopter touched down in the open field adjacent to the fire pit, its rotors slowing to a menacing whir.
The door slid open.
Gaston Collins stepped out.
He wasn’t wearing a suit. He wore a long black trench coat that billowed in the wind, collar turned up. He looked like vengeance personified. Two massive security guards flanked him.
He didn’t look at the crowd. He walked straight toward the fire, his boots crunching on the gravel.
Kieran stood up, squinting against the searchlight. He recognized the silhouette — the height, the walk. It was him. The man from the club.
Gaston reached the circle. He didn’t stop until he was standing directly in front of Jocelyn.
He reached out and snatched the vodka bottle from her hand. He tossed it into the fire. The alcohol hit the flames with a massive whoosh of blue fire that sent everyone stumbling backward.
“Who,” Gaston asked, his voice low but cutting cleanly through the wind, “told my wife she had to drink that p>
The silence was absolute.
“Wife?” Uncle Vincent whispered, the color draining from his face.
Aspen stood up, trembling. “Who are you? You can’t just land here! This is private property p>
Gaston turned his head slowly. He looked at Aspen with the kind of indifference one reserves for an insect.
“I am Gaston Collins,” he said.
The name hit the group like a physical blow. Collins. The banking empire. The people who owned the banks that owned the hotel.