Chapter 142
Chapter 142:
She looked at Caleb’s photograph one final time.
Thank you, she thought. Goodbye.
June turned and walked down the slate path toward the iron gates. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes were clear, sharp, and stripped of everything except purpose. She was walking out of this cemetery wearing armor that nothing would penetrate.
She had to return to the Hamptons estate. She had to look the imposter in the eye and remove him from her life with the clean, unhesitating precision of a surgical blade.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, June’s car passed through the massive iron gates of the Hamptons estate. The hem of her black trench coat was still damp with cemetery earth.
The house was quiet. Mrs. Lynch, the head housekeeper, was in the main floor sitting room, quietly directing two maids as they exchanged the summer drapes for autumn velvet.
June walked in. Her face was a mask of absolute, chilling calm.
She stopped beside Mrs. Lynch and spoke without raising her voice, as casually as if she were asking about the weather.
“Mrs. Lynch — Caleb Compton died in a helicopter crash seven years ago, correct p>
The maids stopped moving. Mrs. Lynch went still. Caleb’s name was a strict, unspoken taboo in the Compton household.
𝘚𝘩𝘢𝗿𝗲 yo𝘶𝗋 𝘧𝖺𝘃𝗈𝗋𝘪t𝗲𝘴 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝘮.с𝘰m
The housekeeper’s eyes filled with a deep, old sorrow. She let out a slow breath and nodded. “Yes, Madam. Seven years ago this month. It was a terrible tragedy p>
June kept her gaze steady. “And before the crash — he was in Switzerland that winter, wasn’t he p>
Mrs. Lynch’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Yes. He was caught in an avalanche while in Davos. He suffered severe injuries and was airlifted home. He had barely recovered when he boarded that helicopter p>
The words fell like the final strike of a judge’s gavel. The last microscopic fraction of doubt in June’s mind was crushed to nothing.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch,” June said. Her voice was completely flat.
She turned and climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, walked into the master bedroom she had shared with Cole for three years, and looked at all of it — the expensive furniture, the king-sized bed, the walk-in closets — with perfect, absolute emptiness. No anger. No nostalgia. Just a vast, frozen void where something had once lived.
At seven o’clock that evening, the heavy front doors opened.
Cole walked in, handed his coat to a maid, and loosened his tie. He had arrived home on time, which was almost unprecedented. He had convinced himself that returning the brooch — even with the terse note — would purchase him a conversation, perhaps even soften the edges of what had been building between them.
He walked into the dining room.
June stood at the marble island, pouring a glass of cold water. She wore a simple gray sweater.
Cole stopped a few feet behind her and shoved his hands into his pockets, attempting to project casual dominance over the considerable anxiety churning beneath it.