Chapter 493

Chapter 492:

Not the stage. Not the winners. His gaze was directed off-camera, to the left, toward some point beyond the photograph’s edge. His expression was — Kieran leaned closer, squinting, his heart beginning to pound — obsessed. That was the only word for it. Gaston Collins looked like a man staring at something he wanted more than air, more than water, more than his own life.

“Who else is in this photograph?” Kieran asked. He kept his voice easy, conversational. “The volunteers, I mean. Do you have records p>

Clark peered at the image. “Let me see — that would be the event support team. We could check the archives, of course, but I believe—” He pointed to a figure at the edge of the frame, a girl in a volunteer T-shirt with her back partially turned. “That’s Jocelyn Wolfe, I think. She was in the drama club, helped with set construction. Lovely girl. Shame about what happened to her family p>

Kieran’s vision tunneled.

𝗡e𝗐 𝘸e𝗲𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘤h𝖺𝗽t𝖾r𝗌 oո

Jocelyn. Of course. Gaston had been watching Jocelyn even then — while Kieran stood on stage accepting applause, Gaston Collins was in the shadows, studying her, wanting her, laying the groundwork for whatever twisted design had culminated in their marriage.

“Could I get a high-resolution scan of this?” Kieran asked. His voice sounded strange to his own ears — distant and hollow. “For my personal collection. I like to remember where I started p>

“Of course, of course.” Clark beamed. “I’ll have our archivist send it to your office this afternoon p>

Kieran smiled. He shook Clark’s hand. He said all the appropriate things about future donations, about the importance of STEM education, about the legacy of his mother’s name.

He walked to his car. He closed the door. He sat in the silence of the leather interior and stared at nothing.

They had known each other. Gaston and Jocelyn. They had known each other for years — for decades — while Kieran was busy building his empire and losing her and convincing himself she was a phase, a mistake, someone he could replace with Aspen and reclaim whenever he chose.

The photograph proved it. The look on Gaston’s face proved it. This was not a chance encounter at a business dinner. This was not a convenient arrangement. This was something else entirely.

Kieran’s phone buzzed. He ignored it. He was thinking about the attic. About the girl he believed he had rescued. About the years of guilt and obligation that had shaped everything between him and Aspen. He had never questioned it — the housekeeper’s words, the timing, the way Aspen had seemed to know precisely what he needed to hear at every turn. He had never questioned it because questioning meant admitting he had been manipulated, that his entire understanding of the past was—

Gaston.

Gaston had done this. Gaston had planted the information, shaped the narrative, ensured that Kieran would spend years protecting the wrong girl while the right one suffered alone.

Kieran’s hands were trembling. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and the leather creaked in protest.

He needed proof. More than a photograph, more than suspicion. He needed dates, times, communications — hard evidence of exactly how long Gaston Collins had been running this game and exactly how many moves ahead he had been at every stage.