Chapter 492

Chapter 491:

Gaston opened his eyes and stared out at the Manhattan skyline — the city that had made them both rich, powerful, and absolutely ruthless.

“She deserves to know,” he said quietly. “Jocelyn. She deserves to know what I did. What I am p>

“She will know,” Justin said. “When you’re ready. When she’s ready. When the knowing won’t destroy what you’ve built.” He paused. “Until then, little brother, I suggest we maintain our mutual silence. You keep my secrets. I’ll keep yours. And we’ll both enjoy the families we’ve — acquired p>

Gaston laughed. It was not a happy sound. “You make us sound like monsters p>

“We are monsters,” Justin said simply. “But we are their monsters. And that makes all the difference p>

𝖣і𝘀𝖼o𝘷𝗲𝗋 𝘩і𝘥𝘥𝖾n 𝗴𝗲ms 𝗈𝗇

The line went dead.

Gaston set the phone down on the desk. He stood at the window for a long time, watching the sun sink behind the skyline, thinking about cages and keys and the fine line between protection and possession.

He thought about calling Jocelyn. Hearing her voice. Reminding himself that she was real, that she was his, that she had chosen him even knowing what he was.

He didn’t call. He had work to do — enemies to monitor, a brother to understand now as something more than the polished politician the world had always seen.

We are the same, Justin had said.

Gaston stood in the fading light and wondered whether that was supposed to comfort him, or terrify him.

Kieran Douglas walked through the halls of his alma mater with the confidence of a man who had donated enough money to have his name on a building.

St. Jude’s Preparatory Academy had changed in the fifteen years since his graduation. New buildings, new facilities, a new arts center that had cost forty million dollars and bore his family’s name on the cornerstone. But the core remained — the red brick, the ivy, the sense of entitlement that permeated every stone.

Principal Clark walked beside him, elderly and effusive, grateful for the seven-figure scholarship endowment Kieran had established in his mother’s memory. They were touring the new alumni center, a glass-and-steel monument to the school’s history, its walls lined with photographs of distinguished graduates.

“And here,” Clark said, pausing before a large display, “is our robotics program. You were one of our first judges, if I recall. 2009 p>

Kieran nodded, barely listening. His eyes moved across the photographs, scanning for familiar faces, looking for—

He stopped.

The photograph was large and professionally shot, capturing the moment of victory at the inaugural robotics competition. A younger Kieran stood on stage, presenting a trophy to the winning team, his expression earnest and proud and completely unaware of what surrounded him.

But Kieran wasn’t looking at himself.

In the corner of the frame, barely visible among a group of student volunteers, stood Gaston Collins.

Younger, of course — sixteen, perhaps seventeen — his hair longer, his face softer, but the bone structure identical. The height. The posture of someone already accustomed to being watched.

And he was watching.