Chapter 271
Chapter 271:
A FaceTime call. Cole’s backup phone, sitting face-up on the glass coffee table, lit with an incoming call. The flash of Alycia Beasley’s perfectly contoured face on the screen hit the moment like a bucket of ice water. The jarring collision of his carefully constructed other life with this raw, violent instant cracked something in his obsessive focus.
His assault stalled. He froze, his face inches from June’s, breathing ragged. He turned his head slightly toward the glowing screen.
Alycia’s face stared back from the caller ID.
It was exactly the window June needed.
She planted her feet, twisted her hips, and threw every ounce of her body weight behind her right arm, swinging in a wide, vicious arc.
The slap rang off the high ceilings of the suite like a gunshot. Her palm connected squarely with Cole’s cheekbone, snapping his head hard to the left. A bright red outline of her fingers bloomed instantly across his pale skin.
Cole knelt there, frozen in absolute shock, the sting spreading across half his face.
June didn’t waste a single second. She drove both hands into his chest, throwing him just far enough off balance to slide free. She scrambled off the sofa, her bare feet slipping slightly on the marble, and sprinted for the master bathroom.
She slammed the heavy oak door behind her. The metallic click of the deadbolt echoed through the room.
𝘈𝗱𝘥𝗂c𝗍iv𝖾 𝗻𝘰𝘷𝖾l𝘀 𝘰ո ѕ.𝗰о𝗺
Cole turned slowly to face the empty sofa. He raised his trembling fingers and touched the burning skin of his cheek. His eyes were wide and hollow, filled with a chaotic wreckage of heartbreak and something far darker.
On the coffee table, Alycia’s call continued to ring — a relentless, grating sound in the silence.
Cole’s face twisted. He reached out, snatched the phone from the table, and drove his thumb onto the green button.
The last thin thread connecting him to June was cut clean.
Cole stood from the sofa, his massive chest heaving with suppressed rage. He had no intention of letting June hear a single word of his conversation with Alycia through the bathroom door.
He turned on his heel, marched out of the Presidential Suite, and let the heavy door click shut behind him. He stepped into the dim, quiet corridor and raised the phone to his face.
The screen flickered. Alycia appeared, sitting in her lavish New York bedroom in a silk nightgown, her makeup touched up to achieve that particular illusion of effortless perfection. She arranged her expression into a mask of sweet, innocent concern.
“Cole, darling,” she said, her voice thick with manufactured warmth. “You sound tense. Are you still at the office p>
Cole angled his body slightly, ensuring the camera captured only the right side of his face and concealed the swollen red handprint burning on his left cheek.
“I am handling an urgent situation,” he said. His voice was flat and completely dead.
Alycia’s eyes narrowed slightly, her instincts sharpening at the tension in his tone.
“You sound exhausted,” she pressed, leaning closer to her camera. “Are you feeling ill? Should I fly out to you p>
“No,” Cole said, his patience evaporating instantly. “I will be done soon p>
Before Alycia could respond, a soft metallic chime echoed through the corridor. The elevator doors at the far end of the hallway slid open.
Crawford stepped out.