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Chapter 637
Chapter 637:
He stood near the elevators, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the chaos with an expression she could not read. He had not moved to help. He had not spoken her name.
She pushed through the crowd toward him, her hand outstretched, her voice rising in desperation.
“Cole! Help us! Please — I’m pregnant, remember? Your child p>
He stepped back.
The movement was small, almost delicate, but it carried the full weight of finality. He looked at her outstretched hand, then at her face. His expression did not change. There was no anger, no pity — nothing at all.
“I don’t know this woman,” he said. His voice was clear, carrying to the edges of the crowd. “She appears to be deranged. Security — please remove her before she injures someone p>
Alycia’s hand fell. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The guards took her arms. She did not resist. She was led away — past her parents, past the cameras, past the wreckage of everything she had tried to build — and she understood, finally and completely, that she had lost.
Astor watched her go. He turned to Cole, and for a moment something resembling approval crossed his ancient face.
“Compton,” he said. “Your judgment has improved p>
𝗥о𝗆𝖺ոc𝖾 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝗽а𝘀𝘀𝘪𝗼n 𝗼𝗇
He walked away, his guards closing around him, leaving the garage to the emergency responders, the gossip columnists, and the slow, inevitable work of cleanup.
June stood in the shadows and watched it all reach its end.
She felt nothing — not satisfaction, not relief, not even the emptiness that sometimes followed the completion of something long and difficult. She simply felt finished.
Easton’s hand touched her elbow. “The car,” he said quietly.
She nodded. She turned away from the scene, from the Beasleys, from the conclusion of a war she had been fighting for years.
“Take me home,” she said.
The penthouse was dark when they arrived.
June had not turned on the lights before leaving — had not expected to return tonight, had not planned for what came after. Now she stood in the living room, the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, and felt the adrenaline draining from her body like water from a cracked cup.
Easton moved through the space with familiar efficiency. He found the bar, the glasses, the bottle of Macallan she kept for occasions that never seemed to arrive. He poured two fingers into each, added ice, and carried them to where she stood.
“Sit,” he said.
She sat. The couch was soft and expensive, designed for a comfort she had never quite learned to accept. She took the glass he offered and drank — too much, too fast, the alcohol burning a path down her throat.
Easton settled beside her. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence, the steadiness of him.
“The police will investigate,” he said, his voice calm and conversational. “Traffic division. Standard protocol for any accident involving injury. They’ll review camera footage, interview witnesses, examine the vehicles p>
June set down her glass. “The B2 cameras p>