Chapter 53
Chapter 53:
June pulled back, her heart hammering.
“Brogan p>
He blinked, visibly dazed. A thread of crimson was already tracing a line from his temple down to his jaw, stark against his pale skin. The brick had grazed his head before connecting with his shoulder.
“Brogan — you’re bleeding!” June’s voice cracked.
The sight of the blood — warm, red, immediate — snapped the security team out of their paralysis.
“Get them inside! Now! Move p>
ѕ𝗵а𝗋𝘦 𝘺𝗈𝘂r 𝘧𝖺𝘃𝗈𝘳і𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝘧𝘳𝘰m ѕ.𝖼о𝗆
Hands seized June. Bodies formed a wall around them. They were pushed backward through the shattered remains of the revolving door and into the lobby.
The heavy security shutters slammed down. The sunlight vanished. The screaming was cut off.
Silence crashed into the room, heavy and suffocating. Employees huddled in corners, some weeping quietly. Papers lay scattered across the floor.
June pushed the guards away and turned to Brogan. He was leaning against the reception desk, one hand pressed to his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Brogan said, attempting a smile. “Just a scratch p>
“It is not a scratch.” June’s hands were trembling as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. She pressed it against the cut on his forehead.
The white silk turned red immediately.
“You idiot,” she whispered, her throat tight. “Why did you do that p>
Brogan looked down at her, his eyes focused and steady despite everything. “Protecting my investment,” he said weakly.
“No,” June said, pressing harder against the wound. “You were protecting me. Thank you p>
Across the lobby, a junior marketing assistant raised her phone.
Click.
In the CEO’s office at Compton Tower, Cole stared at the image on his tablet.
The photo was grainy and taken from a distance, but the emotions in it were perfectly clear. June, looking shaken and desperate. Brogan, looking battered and resolute. Her hands were cupping his face. His blood was on her fingers.
They looked like two people surviving a war together.
Cole pressed his thumb down on the screen. The glass cracked under the pressure. A spiderweb fracture spread across Brogan’s face.
“Sir?” Sterling appeared in the doorway holding a file. “The situation at Apex is escalating. The NYPD is deploying riot gear. Should we issue a statement distancing the Compton Group p>
Cole did not look up. His phone was buzzing continuously on the desk — calls from the blocked number he now knew belonged to Richard Beasley. He swiped to decline for the tenth time.
The feeling in his gut was no longer possessiveness. It was the corrosive acid of self-loathing.
“I told him to stop,” Cole said, more to himself than to Sterling. “I told him to pull them back p>
He slammed his fist on the desk. This was supposed to have been a contained PR operation — a few protesters, some damaging press, enough to shake her confidence. Not a riot. Not bricks. He had created something he could not control.