Chapter 188
Chapter 188:
Cole hung up the phone, the order to destroy Brogan Clements still bitter on his tongue. The rage pulsed through him, demanding immediate action — but before he could pull away from the curb, his phone buzzed again. Eleanor’s voice, sharp and imperious, cut through his fury. She berated him for neglecting his injured wife and insisted he deliver the special bone broth she had prepared. Cole gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. He swallowed the urge to hurl the phone against the dashboard. Fine. He would play the dutiful husband. The soup would be his excuse — the perfect pretext to breach her space and see exactly what was happening on his own territory.
At six o’clock that evening, Cole stood in the hallway outside June’s penthouse apartment, holding a heavy insulated ceramic container of Eleanor’s collagen-rich bone broth.
He pressed the doorbell. Waited.
Silence.
He pressed it again, harder. Still nothing.
A dark irritation tightened in his chest. He reached into his jacket and drew out a heavy black magnetic keycard — the master override for the Compton Group’s elite central security system. When June had moved in, Eleanor had insisted that all family properties be integrated into their centralized grid. June had no administrative authority to unilaterally change the locks or revoke his access — a detail she had likely cursed countless times since filing for divorce.
ոo𝘷е𝘭𝗌 𝘪𝗇 𝗍𝗋е𝘯𝘥 on
Cole swiped the card against the concealed sensor. The lock disengaged with a heavy, metallic click.
He pushed the oak door open and stepped into the foyer.
The apartment was warm. A vintage jazz record turned softly on the vinyl turntable in the corner. The air carried the rich, deeply inviting scent of roasted tomatoes, fresh basil, and melting butter.
Cole’s eyes dropped immediately to the entryway. A pair of expensive, custom-made men’s leather shoes sat neatly beside June’s heels. His heart slammed against his ribs. He removed his own shoes with stiff, mechanical movements and moved quietly down the hallway. On the living room sofa, a high-end grocery bag sat filled with fresh, organic produce.
He stopped in the doorway.
June was in the kitchen. She wore loose, beautifully soft silk pajamas, leaning against the marble island with a half-empty glass of red wine cradled in her hand.
She looked relaxed. She looked radiant.
And standing directly across from her, at the stove, was Brogan Clements.
He had shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, and he wore an apron, tossing pasta in a hot skillet with practiced ease.
“I’m just saying,” Brogan said, his tone light and teasing, “if you hadn’t let me carry those groceries up for you, you’d be eating dry cereal on a fractured ankle right now. Your fridge was a complete tragedy, Dr. Erickson p>
June raised her wine glass to her lips.
Then she threw her head back and laughed — a bright, genuine, musical sound that filled the entire kitchen.
The sledgehammer found Cole’s chest.
He hadn’t heard June laugh like that in three years. She had never looked that at ease around him. She had never stood in silk pajamas drinking wine while someone cooked for her in her own kitchen.
This was his wife. Another man was standing in her home, filling the role that had always been his to fill — and had never once been filled.
The jealousy didn’t burn. It incinerated.
Cole stepped into the living room. His socked feet struck the hardwood with a heavy, deliberate sound.
June and Brogan turned simultaneously.
The moment June saw Cole’s face, her laughter died. Her expression went cold as stone.