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Chapter 685:

June felt the words land in her chest. She had known this was coming—had worked for it, planned for it, sacrificed for it—but the reality was different from the anticipation. The reality was heavy with consequence, with finality, with the knowledge that lives were being destroyed even as justice was being served.

“You’re not celebrating,” Easton observed.

“I’m—” June stopped. Searched for honesty. “I’m tired. I’m tired of destroying things. Even when they deserve to be destroyed p>

Easton’s hand found hers on the center console, his fingers warm and steady. “I know,” he said. “And when this is over—when they’re in prison and you’re free to—” he stopped, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, “—when you’re free to choose what comes next, I’ll be here. Whatever you choose. Even if you choose to walk away p>

June looked at him. Really looked at him—the sharp planes of his face, the exhaustion around his eyes that he tried to hide, the absolute certainty of his gaze.

“Drive,” she said. “Before I say something we’ll both regret p>

Th𝘦 𝘮o𝘀t 𝘱𝗈рu𝗅аr n𝗈𝘃еl𝘀 о𝗇

Easton smiled—gentle, understanding. He put the car in gear and merged into the evening traffic, his hand still holding hers, the city unfolding around them like a promise.

They stopped at a light on Houston Street, the Aston Martin’s engine purring softly, the world outside their quiet bubble of warmth.

“June.” Easton’s voice was different—softer, more tentative than she was accustomed to.

“Yes p>

“I’ve been thinking. About what comes next. After the trial.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his hand tightened on hers. “I have a place. In the Berkshires. Small, isolated, no neighbors for miles. I bought it years ago, after my grandfather died. I never told anyone. It was—” he stopped, his jaw tightening, “—it was where I went to remember what it felt like to be human. To not be the weapon, the tool, the thing people used to get what they wanted p>

June felt her breath hitch. She understood this. She understood it more than she wanted to.

“I want to take you there,” Easton continued. “When this is over. I want—” he stopped again, his voice dropping to a whisper, “—I want to know what it feels like to be there with someone who sees me. Really sees me. Not the lawyer, not the weapon. Just… me p>

The light turned green. Easton drove on, but his hand remained in hers, waiting, asking without words.

June thought of all the reasons to say no. The danger of intimacy, the risk of dependence, the certainty that all relationships eventually curdled into power struggles and resentment.

She thought of the alternative. Of going home to an empty apartment, of building walls higher and thicker until no one could reach her, of becoming exactly what her trauma wanted her to become: isolated, untouchable, alone.

“Yes,” she said.

Easton’s head turned, his eyes finding hers for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. “Yes p>

“Yes. To the Berkshires. To—” she stopped, forced the words past the constriction in her throat, “—to seeing you. The real you. Whatever that means p>

Easton’s smile was radiant, transforming his face from handsome to beautiful, from controlled to absolutely, terrifyingly open.

“Whatever that means,” he agreed.