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Chapter 643
Chapter 643:
He turned onto June’s street without braking. The tires shrieked. He mounted the curb, stopped inches from the doorman’s station, and was out of the vehicle before it finished rocking.
“Sir—” the doorman began.
Cole’s eyes found his. Whatever the man saw there — desperation, madness, the particular vacancy of a man who had lost everything — made him step back, hands raised.
Cole pushed through the revolving doors. The lobby was marble and morning silence, the concierge still arranging flowers at the front desk.
He made it three steps before the elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
Cole’s feet stopped working. His body became stone as June stepped out.
She wore navy — Tom Ford, he recognized automatically, the cut severe and modern, trousers that fell straight from hip to ankle, a silk blouse the color of midnight. Her hair was pulled back, exposing the line of her throat, the place where he had once pressed his mouth and felt her pulse flutter. She must have stopped at her own apartment to change — a quick pause before stepping into a new day, a new life.
𝗪𝖾 𝗎𝗽𝗱𝗮𝘵е 𝗲𝘷e𝘳𝗒 𝘸𝘦𝗲k o𝗇
She looked — Cole’s stomach twisted — she looked satisfied. The particular ease of a woman who had spent the night being wanted.
And beside her, half a step behind, Easton Hahn.
The lawyer wore charcoal today, a three-piece suit that probably cost more than Cole’s first car. His tie was perfectly knotted. His shoes were polished. He looked like a man who had showered in his lover’s apartment, borrowed her coffee, and kissed her goodbye with the casual intimacy of established habit.
Most damning of all was his hand.
It rested at the small of June’s back — not possessive, not crude, simply present. A statement of territory so subtle it might have seemed accidental, except Cole knew that nothing Easton Hahn did was accidental.
June saw him.
Her stride didn’t falter. Her expression didn’t change. She looked at Cole with the same polite disinterest she might offer a piece of furniture, a cloud formation, a stranger on the subway.
“June.” His voice came out as gravel, as wreckage, the sound of a man who had been screaming inside his own mind for hours. “We need to talk p>
Easton moved — one fluid step that placed his body between Cole and June, not quite blocking her but creating a barrier nonetheless.
“Mr. Compton.” The lawyer’s voice was ice, professional and absolute. “You’re in violation of a standing restraining order. I suggest you leave before I call the authorities p>
Cole’s hands curled into fists. Blood welled from his reopened burns, dripping onto the marble floor in small crimson spots that seemed to expand in his vision.
“Step aside, Hahn.” The words scraped his throat. “This is between my wife and me p>
June laughed.
It was a small sound, contemptuous and utterly without humor. She stepped around Easton — choosing to face Cole directly rather than shelter behind her companion — and met his eyes.