Chapter 477
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Chapter 477:
Across from her sat Senator Hayes — handsome in a stiff, conventional way, dark suit and a red tie, currently five minutes deep into a deliberately provocative monologue on why federal arts funding was a bloated and unnecessary drain on taxpayer dollars. He had chosen the topic knowing precisely which nerve it would strike.
Bella dropped her fork. It landed against the porcelain plate with a sharp clatter.
“Senator,” she said, her voice completely unfiltered, eyes flashing. “Are you delivering this incredibly controversial, borderline insulting fiscal lecture to disguise the fact that you would rather be literally anywhere else than on a date that feels more like a congressional hearing p>
Senator Hayes stopped mid-sentence. He stared at her.
We uр𝖽𝖺𝘁е 𝖾𝗏е𝘳𝗒 𝘄𝖾e𝗄 o𝗻
Then, something unexpected happened. The stiff political mask fell away entirely. He threw his head back and laughed — a genuine, full, unguarded laugh. He settled back in his chair, suddenly looking far more relaxed, and considerably more dangerous.
“I apologize, Ms. Douglas,” he said, his eyes finding hers with a sharp new intensity. “I’m accustomed to using divisive policy to frighten off women who only want access to my title. I needed to know whether you would simply nod along, or whether I was sitting across from someone with actual teeth p>
Bella’s heart performed a strange, unwelcome flip in her chest. She smiled — a real smile, slow and dangerous. “Oh, Senator. You have absolutely no idea p>
Meanwhile, in the dark, smoke-filled basement of the Meatpacking District cigar bar, Kieran Douglas sat alone. His laptop cast a pale glow across his face in the surrounding darkness.
An encrypted file had just been delivered from the dark web syndicate.
He clicked it open. It was not merely a travel itinerary. It was a trove of heavily encrypted, partially redacted security logs from the night Elbert Collins’s wife had died — documents suggesting that Gaston had systematically buried evidence of family negligence.
Attached to it was a live tracking notification.
Collins, Gaston. Wolfe, Jocelyn. Destination: Tromsø, Norway. Private Camp. February 12th.
Kieran’s eyes widened slowly. A sick, deliberate smile stretched across his face.
He finally had the blade to cut Gaston’s throat — and Gaston himself was handing him the perfect, isolated place to use it.
The air inside the Gulfstream G650 was a low, pressurized hum — the sound of absolute privilege cutting through the stratosphere. Below, the jagged, snow-dusted coast of Norway stretched across the horizon in a breathtaking expanse of dark fjords and white peaks.
Jocelyn was asleep, curled on the cream-colored leather divan with a cashmere blanket pulled up to her chin. She looked peaceful — younger, somehow — the relentless weight of her empire momentarily forgotten.
Gaston Collins sat across from her, a crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched on the polished table beside him. He wasn’t looking at the scenery. He was watching his wife breathe.
The encrypted satellite phone resting on his knee vibrated once — a silent, haptic pulse he had designed himself. He glanced down. The screen was black, displaying a single amber dot.
Perimeter breach. Level 2.