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Chapter 501
Chapter 501:
Inside the cabin, Crawford sat alone in a wide leather seat, staring at the encrypted tablet in his hands. It displayed a priority red-alert field report from Marcus and the Ghost Team. He read the words apparent self-harm attempt and severe psychological collapse until they burned into his retinas.
His chest caved as though a sledgehammer had driven through his ribs. He closed his eyes, and the image of June’s pale, fragile face from the Boston car crash surfaced behind them. He had sworn to shield her from everything that could hurt her — and he had failed.
He opened his eyes. They burned with a cold, unquenchable fire.
He picked up the satellite phone built into the armrest and dialed his head of global security.
“Marcus,” Crawford said, his voice a low, lethal growl. “I want the location, communication records, and full financials of every member of the Beasley family for the last twenty-four hours. I want it on my screen before this plane touches down p>
“Understood, Mr. Love,” Marcus replied immediately.
Crawford hung up. He gripped the leather armrests until his knuckles turned white.
The VIP wing of Mt. Sinai smelled of industrial bleach and overpriced peony arrangements.
In the largest private suite, Alycia lay in the center of an automated hospital bed, an IV line taped to the back of her pale hand. She looked devastatingly fragile — face bare of makeup, hair tangled against the white pillows.
𝖡𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗇
The heavy wooden door creaked open.
Cole walked in.
The raw grief he had carried outside June’s room had frozen solid into a mask of ice-cold fury. He brought with him a suffocating energy that seemed to drain the air from the room the moment he crossed the threshold. He still wore the same suit from the Beasley mansion — fabric wrinkled, a faint, horrifying smear of dried blood on his white shirt cuff. June’s blood.
He looked exhausted, the dark circles beneath his eyes deep as bruises, but his jaw was locked and his face was a mask of absolute, unforgiving stone.
Alycia saw him. She immediately let out a weak, trembling sob.
“Cole,” she whimpered, her voice cracking with practiced precision. Hot tears spilled down her pale cheeks. She reached her uninjured hand out toward him.
Cole did not step forward.
He stopped three feet from the edge of the bed and did not reach for her hand. He simply stood there, his tall frame casting a long, heavy shadow over her.
His eyes dropped slowly to her flat stomach.
A wave of nausea rolled through his gut. The sight of her abdomen sent his mind straight to his twin brother, Caleb — Caleb’s pale, dying face in a hospital bed exactly like this one. The promise he had made to take care of the woman Caleb loved. That guilt was a chain wrapped tight around his throat. It was the only reason he was standing in this room.
Alycia let her hand fall, realizing he wasn’t going to take it. She sniffled softly.