Chapter 211
Chapter 211:
Weeks ago, he had been desperate to sign this. He had wanted June gone. But now, the concrete reality of her leaving — of her walking away to Crawford Love, to Brogan Clements — ignited something dark and consuming in the pit of his stomach.
She wants to be free? She wants to discard me?
His hands closed over the thick stack of documents. Davis watched in silence as Cole’s knuckles turned white. With one violent, wrenching motion, Cole tore the entire fifty-page agreement cleanly in half. He stacked the pieces and tore them again, his chest heaving. Then he threw the shredded fragments directly at Davis.
White confetti rained down over the lawyer’s shoulders and drifted across the floor.
“Mr. Compton — what are you doing?” Davis said, completely rigid with shock.
Cole planted both hands on the desk and leaned forward. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice raw and scraping. “Suspend the divorce,” he ordered. “Freeze the entire process. Indefinitely p>
Davis swallowed. “Sir — Ms. Beasley’s legal team has been calling every day. They sent a formal letter this morning demanding a signed prenuptial agreement by next Friday, or they will go to the press about your delay tactics and file a court motion to protect the rights of the unborn Compton heir p>
Cole’s eyes went flat and black.
“I am the one who signs your paychecks, Davis. Not Alycia.” His voice was a quiet, lethal growl. “Do exactly what I said. I will deal with Alycia p>
Davis nodded rapidly and retreated from the room.
𝗙𝗼𝗹𝘭ow 𝘂𝗌 𝗼𝘯
Cole sank back into his leather chair. He looked at the hundred-dollar check on his desk.
A slow, sick smile crept across his face.
You can hate me, June, he thought, his mind wholly consumed. But as long as I refuse to sign that paper, you will die as my wife.
The open-plan office of Apex Bio hummed with quiet, focused activity — the rapid clicking of keyboards, the low drone of centrifuges, the measured rhythm of a floor deep in work.
Beneath the surface, a current of tension ran steady and sharp.
June pushed through the heavy glass laboratory doors in a razor-cut black suit, leaning on a single sleek carbon-fiber crutch. The medical walking boot on her injured foot struck the polished floor in a heavy, rhythmic beat that announced her arrival with unambiguous authority.
As she moved down the main aisle, her peripheral vision swept the room. She clocked them immediately — two junior analysts near the water cooler, ostensibly discussing a spreadsheet, their eyes tracking her every step. Alycia’s informants.
June’s expression hardened.
She marched directly to Abbie’s cubicle, her movements sharp and radiating controlled impatience. Abbie looked up, and the moment she registered June’s face, she shrank back into her chair — eyes wide, expression a perfectly calibrated blend of fear and simmering resentment.
June raised the thick data report and drove it against Abbie’s monitor. The binder slipped, crashed onto the keyboard, and scattered papers across the desk.
“I told you to cross-reference the Phase Three trial subjects!” June’s voice cut through the entire floor like a blade. “What is this garbage you put on my desk p>
The typing stopped. The floor went silent. Dozens of heads appeared above monitors.