[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 667:
Chloe was vibrating with nervous energy, her eyes darting to the menu, to the other diners, to the prices that weren’t listed. “Dr. Erickson, this is—I’ve never been anywhere like p>
“June.” She reached across the table and touched Chloe’s hand briefly. “Call me June. And breathe. This is a celebration. Your work this week has been exceptional. You deserve exceptional in return p>
Chloe’s smile was tremulous and genuine, the first unguarded expression June had seen from her in weeks. “Thank you. I just—I want you to know, whatever happens with the Love account, I’m committed. I’m here. I’m p>
“I know.” June raised her glass of sake, waiting for Chloe to match her. “To commitment. And to knowing when to step back from it p>
They drank. The sake was cold and pristine, tasting of snowmelt and stone.
June was reaching for the menu when movement caught her eye—a figure passing the screen, tall and dark-suited, his stride carrying the unconscious authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Easton Hahn.
He didn’t see her. He was focused on his companions, three older men in equally expensive suits, their conversation low and intense. Wall Street lawyers, June recognized automatically. The kind of men who handled billion-dollar mergers before breakfast.
Ro𝗆𝗮ո𝘤𝗲 no𝘷𝖾𝘭ѕ 𝘰𝘯
Easton paused at the entrance to the private dining room, his hand finding the doorframe, his body angling to hold it open for his guests. The movement pulled his suit jacket tight across his shoulders, revealing the line of his spine, the—
June looked away. She took another sip of sake and reminded herself that she was here for Chloe, here for a celebration, here to be a mentor.
But her eyes found him again. They couldn’t help it.
He was seated now, his back to her screen, his companions arrayed around him. She could make out his profile through the translucent rice paper—sharp nose, strong jaw, the gray eyes that saw too much and revealed too little.
He looked tired. More than tired—exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that came from carrying impossible weights. She knew that look. She wore it herself, most days.
One of his companions said something. Easton’s head turned slightly, and his smile—polite, professional, utterly empty—made June’s chest tighten with a familiar ache.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes met through the screen, through the rice paper’s translucent barrier, across the space of the restaurant. It wasn’t a discovery; it was an acknowledgment. A silent, intimate current passed between them. His professional mask didn’t falter, but she saw it—a subtle shift in the set of his shoulders, a slight easing of the tension in his jaw. It was a private message meant only for her: I see you. I’m here. Are you okay?
June gave a nearly imperceptible nod, her response just as private. Her own tension eased, the ever-present knot in her stomach loosening by a fraction. He was here. He was close. And some part of her—the part that had learned to breathe again in his presence—was deeply, profoundly glad.
The corridor to the restrooms was dimly lit, lined with bamboo, the floor covered in tatami mats that muffled every footstep.