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Chapter 452
Chapter 452:
Cole’s hand moved with terrifying speed. He reached into the waistband of his torn trousers and pulled out the compact 9mm Glock he had retrieved from the biometric safe under his car seat, bypassing his bodyguard’s security protocols entirely.
He racked the slide and leveled the barrel at the center of Crawford’s forehead.
“Cole, no!” Julian lunged forward.
Crawford did not flinch. He did not raise his hands. He rose slowly from the sofa and stared straight down the barrel.
“Pull the trigger, you coward,” Crawford whispered, his voice soaked in contempt. “Prove to her exactly what you are p>
Cole’s finger tightened. His hand shook violently. The humiliation demanded blood.
In that precise fraction of a second, a sharp ringtone pierced the silence.
It was the emergency secure line in Cole’s pocket — the tone designated exclusively for life-or-death medical situations.
Cole’s finger froze on the trigger. His chest heaved. He kept the gun leveled at Crawford’s head as he reached into his pocket with his left hand and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Speak,” Cole rasped.
𝗗іs𝘤𝗈𝗏𝖾r ոе𝘄 𝗌to𝗿іеs 𝗈𝘯 ѕ.c𝗈𝘮
It was the head nurse from the VIP wing of Mt. Sinai Hospital. Her voice was shaking with barely controlled panic.
Cole’s finger slowly relaxed against the trigger guard.
He listened to the frantic voice of the nurse on the other end of the line. He lowered the Glock, his eyes never leaving Crawford’s face. He engaged the safety with a sharp click and shoved the weapon back into his waistband.
“This is not over,” Cole said. His voice was a hollow, freezing void. “I will deal with you later p>
He turned on his heel and walked out of the soundproofed room, leaving Julian and Crawford in the suffocating silence.
Thirty minutes earlier, high above the city in the Compton penthouse.
Alycia sat on the edge of the massive custom sofa. The giant flat-screen television was muted, but the breaking news ticker at the bottom of the screen was flashing red — paparazzi footage of Cole and Crawford brawling in the gutter of Fifth Avenue playing on a continuous loop.
Alycia’s fingernails dug into the expensive leather cushions. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
Cole was a man who valued control and public image above nearly everything. Yet he had thrown all of it away, fighting in the street in broad daylight. And Alycia knew precisely why.
He did it for June.
She had to break the spell. She had to drag his attention back to her, back to the child.
Alycia stood and walked quickly to the guest bathroom. She opened her designer makeup bag and removed a small plastic pouch of theatrical stage blood — a prop she had acquired weeks ago for exactly this kind of emergency.
She took a steadying breath. She turned on the shower, letting the water splash across the marble floor until the tiles were slick.
She stepped onto the wet surface. She deliberately threw her weight backward, letting her feet slide out from under her. She hit the solid marble floor hard. The impact sent a genuine jolt of pain through her hip and up her spine.