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Chapter 676:
June pulled the door closed. The engine purred to life, a low thrum that vibrated through her spine. She found the gear, eased off the brake, and guided the Aston Martin toward the ramp that led to the street above.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Easton standing where she had left him, hands still in his pockets, his body angled toward her departure like a compass needle toward north.
She turned the corner and lost sight of him.
The Aston Martin handled like a dream—responsive, powerful, utterly unlike the utilitarian vehicles she had driven in her previous life. June found herself enjoying the physicality of it, the way the car responded to her slightest touch, the way it carved through the morning traffic with precision and grace.
She had forgotten what it felt like to enjoy something without analyzing it for threats.
Her phone buzzed as she pulled into the Apex Bio garage. A text from Easton. She opened it, half-expecting a critique of her driving. Instead the message was simple: “The car suits you p>
June’s jaw tightened. She should be furious. She should feel trapped, surveilled.
Instead, she felt something else entirely—a warmth that spread from her chest to her fingertips, a flutter in her stomach that she refused to name.
𝘚hа𝗋𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝗿 𝘵𝗵𝗈𝘶g𝘩𝗍𝘴 о𝗻
He had waited. He had respected her space. He had trusted her to make it on her own.
She felt seen.
She parked the car, her hands steady on the wheel. Only after the engine fell silent did she type a one-word reply: “Home?” It was a question and a statement at once. His response was instantaneous: “Always p>
The day passed in a blur of data and meetings. The Gen-2 trials were proceeding better than projected—molecular binding efficiency off the charts, the toxicity profile cleaner than anything in the literature. June should have been celebrating. She should have been calling her team, calling the White House liaison, calling everyone who had ever doubted that June Erickson could deliver miracles.
Instead, she kept thinking about the Aston Martin in the garage below. About the blue button on the dash. About the man who had given her the keys to his car and his home and asked for nothing in return but her safe arrival.
She could not decide if this was freedom or a new, more insidious kind of cage. She suspected it was both.
At six, her phone buzzed. Easton: “Dinner? I can cook. Or we can order. Or you can drive yourself to my place and we’ll figure it out together p>
June stared at the message. The casual intimacy of it—the assumption of continued connection, of shared space, of a future that extended beyond this single day—should have sent her running.
She typed back: “I’ll drive p>
His reply came immediately: “I’ll be waiting p>
She gathered her things, said goodnight to her team, and took the elevator to the garage. The Aston Martin sat where she had left it, sleek and black and waiting.
She slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and paused.