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Chapter 317
Chapter 317:
She slipped out of bed, crossed to Cole’s discarded trousers on the armchair, and fished out his locked phone. She pressed his limp thumb against the sensor. The screen unlocked with a soft click. She opened his contacts, located the entry marked Wife, and memorized the number. She typed it into her own phone.
She hit send.
A cold, triumphant smile spread slowly across her face.
“Checkmate, Mrs. Compton p>
The morning sunlight filtered through the large windows of June’s temporary apartment in Boston.
She sat at the small kitchen island, holding a mug of black coffee. Her left arm was secured in a black medical sling, immobilizing her bruised collarbone.
The apartment was perfectly quiet.
Then her smartphone vibrated against the marble countertop. The screen lit up with a notification — a multimedia message from an unknown number.
June set down her coffee and picked up the phone. She tapped the message icon.
𝗥om𝖺𝘯𝘤𝖾 𝗮𝗇𝗱 𝗉a𝘀𝗌іon оո ѕ.𝗰о𝗆
The high-definition photograph loaded instantly, filling her entire screen.
It was an image of Cole’s bare, muscular chest, his eyes closed in deep sleep. Pressed intimately against him was Alycia, her bare shoulder marked with dark red bruises. And there, subtly visible in the rumpled sheets below them, was a stark smear of crimson blood on the white hotel linen.
June stared at the photograph. Her eyes moved over the bruises, the blood, the intimate positioning of their bodies.
She waited for the familiar, agonizing stab of pain in her chest. She waited for the burning jealousy, the suffocating anger, the tears that used to blind her every time Cole chose another woman over her.
She waited five seconds.
Nothing happened.
Her heart rate did not increase by a single beat. Her breathing remained slow and rhythmic. Her stomach did not turn.
As she studied the glowing screen, a quiet, profound realization washed over her. She had spent seven years breaking her own heart — sacrificing her dignity for a man who had never truly existed. The Cole she had loved was a phantom, an illusion constructed entirely from her own desperate hopes. The man in this photograph was a stranger participating in a vulgar, pathetic farce. It was a messy, disgusting tragedy, but it was someone else’s tragedy now. It had absolutely nothing to do with her anymore.
The love she had harbored for Cole Compton for seven years was completely, irreversibly dead.
June tapped the screen, pressed Block Caller, then Delete Thread.
The photograph vanished into the digital trash, leaving no trace behind.
She locked her phone, picked up her coffee, and took a sip. It was time to go to the hospital.
An hour later, June walked through the heavy doors of the intensive care unit.
She approached Crawford’s room. Through the glass, she could see him sitting up slightly, a tablet propped on his lap. He was working, despite the tubes and bandages covering his body.
June pushed the door open.
Crawford looked up. The cold, calculating CEO vanished in an instant, replaced by a soft, genuinely warm light in his dark eyes.
“You should be resting your shoulder,” Crawford said, his voice still rough but gentle.
“I am fine,” June replied, walking to the side of the bed. She kept a respectful distance. “How are your ribs p>