Chapter 183
Chapter 183:
Cole became fully convinced that Julian had not been talking about Richard from Boston. He was convinced Julian was confessing his own feelings for June.
Crawford Love never crossed his mind. His focus locked entirely onto Julian.
Cole stood and leaned over him, his physical presence pressing down like a weight.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” Cole said, his voice low and dripping with menace. “Even if I throw something out on the street, as long as it still carries my name, no one else is permitted to touch it p>
Julian’s mouth fell open. Cole thought he was the one going after June. In one clumsy attempt to test his friend, Julian had made himself the primary target of Cole’s possessive fury.
Before he could say a word to correct it, Cole’s phone began vibrating violently on the bar. The screen lit up.
The caller ID read: Alycia.
Cole stared at the glowing screen. He snatched the phone off the bar and answered.
“Cole…” Alycia’s voice came through weak and trembling, threaded with manufactured tears. “My chest hurts so much. I can’t breathe — the baby p>
The mention of the baby — the living symbol of his guilt toward his dead brother Caleb — instantly overrode Cole’s jealousy. His jaw tightened.
𝘋𝗂scоve𝗿 𝘯e𝘄 𝘴𝘁о𝗿і𝘦ѕ 𝗈𝗇
“I’m on my way. Don’t move p>
He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and walked out of the club without a glance at Julian, leaving a trail of cold air in his wake.
Julian sat at the bar in stunned silence.
He had tried to protect Crawford, and in return, Cole had essentially threatened him. Julian let out a short, bitter laugh, snapped his fingers at the bartender, and pointed at the bottle of Macallan.
“Leave it,” he said. “Put it on Compton’s tab p>
He began to drink — to dull the memory of the look in Cole’s eyes, and to forget the war that was quietly assembling itself around all of them.
Two hours later, Julian was completely, hopelessly drunk.
He was slumped across the mahogany bar, cheek pressed against the wood, mumbling incoherently to an empty glass.
On the other side of the club, the heavy velvet curtains parted. Vera — razor-sharp fashion editor of Vogue and June’s closest friend in New York — stepped out of a private VIP booth. She wore a stunning, custom-tailored Paris haute couture trench coat and her signature red-soled Louboutins, and she moved through the room with the kind of authority that parted crowds without effort.
As she approached the exit, her sharp eyes caught the pathetic figure collapsed over the bar.
She stopped. She recognized the expensive watch on his wrist. The impeccably styled hair. Julian Thorne — Cole’s perpetual, useless shadow.
Vera’s lip curled. She walked over and drove her acrylic nail into his shoulder.
“Hey, playboy,” she said, her voice saturated with disdain. “Dying here is going to ruin the aesthetic p>
Julian slowly raised his head. His vision swam. He made out the blurred silhouette of a woman with remarkable legs and gave a lopsided, drunken grin. “Hey, beautiful… want a drink p>
Vera rolled her eyes and turned to leave.