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Chapter 624
Chapter 624:
Easton studied her face and knew he could not stop her. He turned his attention inward, silently revising his contingency protocols, calculating every possible variable.
June walked toward the closet to change.
Sloane raised her glass, watching her go, and whispered to no one in particular: “Good luck tonight, Beasley family p>
At the window, Easton pulled out his phone and sent an encrypted message to his private team.
9 PM sharp. Take over all traffic cameras within three blocks of the Pierre Hotel.
A meticulously orchestrated endgame — designed to sever the Beasley family’s last hold on Manhattan — had entered its final countdown.
The Pierre Hotel rose against the November sky like a promise of old money — limestone façade, gilded balconies, doormen in coats that cost more than most monthly rents.
By seven o’clock, Fifth Avenue was impassable. Black sedans and armored SUVs lined the curb in both directions, engines idling, occupants waiting for the valet’s signal. The sidewalk was a river of fur and diamonds, of voices pitched to carry without shouting, of the particular arrogance that came from knowing your family name appeared in history books.
June sat in the passenger seat of the Aston Martin, her hands folded in her lap, her face composed into a mask of absolute serenity.
Easton drove.
The DB5’s engine purred like something alive, a low thrum that vibrated through the leather seats and into June’s bones. The steering wheel was wood and chrome, the gauges analog, the speedometer needle climbing with mechanical precision.
R𝘦аd 𝘸і𝗍𝘩𝗼𝘂𝘵 i𝗇te𝗿𝗋𝘶p𝘵𝗂𝗈ո𝘴 оո
They turned onto Fifth Avenue. The crowd outside The Pierre thickened. Heads turned. The Aston Martin was not a common sight — even among this gathering, where Bentleys and Maybachs were as plentiful as taxis.
Easton slowed to a crawl. The valet — a young man in a burgundy coat — stepped forward, then stopped, his eyes widening. There was no chauffeur. The man behind the wheel was driving himself.
Easton pulled to the curb and cut the engine. The silence was sudden and absolute.
He looked at June. “Ready p>
She reached for the door handle without answering.
Easton was faster. He was out of the car, circling the hood with long strides, reaching her door before she could touch it. He opened it and extended his hand.
June placed her fingers in his palm and stepped out.
Her heel — black stiletto, the sole a flash of trademark red — touched the red carpet. Then the other foot. She rose to her full height, her hand still resting in Easton’s, and the crowd seemed to inhale as one.
The dress was Tom Ford. Deep gray velvet, cut to expose her entire back, the fabric clinging to her hips before falling in a clean line to her ankles. She wore no jewelry except a single strand of diamonds at her throat — small, imperfect stones that caught the light like scattered stars. Her hair was pulled back, severe and simple. Her face was bare of color except for the red on her lips.