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Chapter 598
Chapter 598:
“Ms. Beasley.” The assistant’s voice was flat, entirely without warmth, robotic in its precision. “Mr. Compton has requested your presence this evening. A car is waiting outside to take you to the Fifth Avenue penthouse p>
Alycia stopped breathing.
The Fifth Avenue penthouse.
The crown jewel of the Compton real estate portfolio. A legendary, ultra-exclusive residence maintained strictly for the head of the family and his wife.
Every trace of terror she had been carrying vanished in an instant, incinerated by a surge of arrogant, irrational joy.
F𝘰𝘭𝗹𝗼𝘸 uѕ 𝘰𝗻
“I’ll be right down,” she said, and ended the call before she had fully finished the sentence.
She sprinted up the stairs and burst through her mother’s bedroom door.
“Mom!” she gasped. “He wants me at the penthouse — the Fifth Avenue penthouse! He’s going to propose. I know it. He finally realized June is nothing, and I am the only one who deserves to be Mrs. Compton p>
Susan dropped the ice pack she had been holding against her swollen cheek. A wide, grotesque smile stretched across her bruised face.
“I told you!” she crowed. “That woman thought she could beat us. Put on your best dress, Alycia. Make him beg p>
Over the next two hours, Alycia constructed herself with meticulous care. She squeezed into a skin-tight white haute couture gown that radiated bridal intention. She fastened the heavy diamond necklace Cole had given her months ago around her throat and studied her reflection until she was satisfied.
She walked out of the house like someone returning to claim what was rightfully hers.
The Maybach delivered her to the ultra-luxury building on Fifth Avenue. The doorman opened her door with a deep bow. She rode the gold-paneled private elevator directly to the top floor.
When the doors opened into the penthouse foyer, the sheer scale of it hit her like a physical force. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking panoramic view of Central Park at dusk, the park spread out below in deep greens and lengthening shadows. Original paintings hung on the walls with the quiet authority of things that don’t need to announce their value.
Alycia ran her hand slowly along the back of a custom Italian leather sofa. Mine, she thought. All of this is finally mine.
She took out her phone and snapped three quick selfies with the view behind her.
“Where is Cole?” she asked the assistant, her tone already carrying the particular condescension of a woman who has decided she lives here.
The assistant didn’t answer. He simply bowed his head, stepped back into the elevator, and let the doors close silently behind him.
Alycia frowned.
Then she heard it — the slow, measured rhythm of leather shoes descending the floating glass staircase.
She pocketed her phone and arranged herself: chin slightly lifted, smile soft and adoring, the picture of devoted femininity.