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Chapter 332
Chapter 332:
“What are you doing here?” June asked, pulling back slightly.
“My baby died!” Vera wailed, pointing dramatically at the pink Porsche. “I was on my way to a gala in Manhattan and the engine just gave up. And my useless private mechanic is stuck in traffic a hundred miles away p>
June shook her head. She walked over to the crack in the asphalt, grabbed the base of the expensive stiletto, and yanked it free. She handed it back to Vera.
Vera slipped the shoe back on, regaining her towering height. She looked past June’s shoulder and spotted the silver Aston Martin.
Her eyes lit up with predatory interest. “Whose ride is that p>
Before June could answer, Julian walked out of the service plaza doors carrying a cardboard tray with a steaming cup of coffee and a bottle of water.
He looked up. His eyes locked onto the woman in the Chanel suit.
Julian’s perfectly composed face instantly contorted into a mask of visceral horror.
Vera saw him at the exact same moment. Her lips curled into a sneer of aristocratic disgust.
уo𝘶𝘳 𝗱a𝗶𝘭𝘆 𝖽𝗈𝘴e of 𝗻о𝘃е𝗅ѕ o𝘯.сo𝗺
They were both fixtures in the elite Manhattan social scene — they shared the same circles, attended the same galas, and despised each other with burning passion. Vera considered Julian a greasy, brainless playboy. Julian considered Vera a loud, obnoxious nightmare.
Vera dismissed Julian’s existence entirely. She hooked her arm through June’s good arm.
“Darling,” Vera announced, her voice ringing with absolute entitlement. “Your car is now my car. You are taking me back to Manhattan p>
June opened her mouth to explain the situation, but Vera was already marching toward the Aston Martin, dragging June along with her.
Vera stopped directly in front of Julian. She looked him up and down as though he were a piece of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.
“Thorne,” Vera ordered, snapping her fingers in his face. “Get my luggage out of the Porsche. Do not scratch the leather p>
Julian’s jaw dropped. A prominent vein throbbed against his temple. He looked at June, his eyes screaming for a rescue.
June offered him a tiny, helpless shrug. She was not going to fight Vera.
Vera yanked the passenger door of the Aston Martin open and looked at June. “You sit in the back, honey. The shotgun seat is mine p>
Julian stood frozen, holding the coffee tray, his knuckles whitening around the cardboard. He stared at the insufferably arrogant woman settling into his pristine leather seat and wanted to scream.
But he had promised Crawford he would get June home safely.
Julian let out a heavy, defeated groan. He handed the bottle of water to June, turned around, and began the humiliating walk toward the pink Porsche to retrieve Vera’s massive Hermès suitcases.
June slid into the cramped back seat of the sports car.
In the rearview mirror, she watched Julian wrestling with an enormous orange trunk. For the first time in weeks, the crushing weight in her chest lifted — just slightly — and a tiny, genuine spark of amusement warmed her cold blood.