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Chapter 691:
He didn’t walk. He stalked. His suit jacket—cashmere, charcoal, probably worth more than most people’s monthly rent—swung open as he moved, revealing the holster at his hip. She had never noticed it before. She had never thought to look. She had seen him at a charity shooting event once, years ago, and had dismissed it as a rich man’s hobby. A networking tool. But watching him now, she saw the truth. The way he held his shoulders, the economy of his motion, the hyper-awareness in his gaze—it wasn’t the posture of a lawyer. It was the muscle memory of a different life, one she had been profoundly, terrifyingly wrong about.
The van’s side door cracked open. A man emerged—dark jacket, baseball cap pulled low. He moved like someone trained: shoulders forward, weight balanced, hand drifting toward his waistband.
Easton covered the distance in three seconds.
June’s breath caught. She had seen him in court, devastating witnesses with words. She had seen him gentle, feeding her soup in a hospital bed. She had seen him passionate, kissing her like she was oxygen.
She had never seen him violent.
Easton’s hand shot out and closed around the man’s wrist before he could clear his weapon. A twist, a step, and the man was airborne—flung against the concrete pillar with a sound like meat hitting stone.
The impact echoed through the empty garage.
The man grunted, tried to roll, but Easton was already on him. His forearm pressed against the man’s throat, pinning him to the pillar. His knee drove into the man’s abdomen, immobilizing him completely.
“Don’t,” Easton said. Quiet. Conversational. “I know twelve ways to make this permanent. Test me p>
The man’s eyes widened. His hands went slack.
𝘖𝘳ga𝘯𝘪𝗓𝘦 𝗒𝘰𝗎𝗿 𝗹i𝘣𝗿a𝗿𝘺 oո.соm
Something fell from his jacket. A camera. Professional-grade, its heavy body bouncing off the concrete with a crack of plastic and glass.
June stared.
The camera. The van. The professional distance, the idling engine, the tinted windows.
Surveillance.
Not Cole. Cole would have stormed in, smashed windows, made it physical and personal and loud. This was something else. Something colder.
She unlocked the door.
“June.” Easton’s voice carried across the garage, sharp, warning. “Stay in the car p>
She didn’t.
Her heels clicked against concrete as she crossed to them. Easton’s head turned, his expression shifting—fury, fear, something desperate.
“Let him breathe,” she said.
She stopped three feet away and looked down at the camera. The lens was cracked, but the body was intact. Professional. Expensive. The kind of equipment that cost more than most surveillance teams’ entire budget.
She crouched. Picked it up. The weight was familiar—she had used similar equipment in grad school, documenting cellular responses under microscopes.
Her thumb found the power button. The screen flickered to life.
She navigated to the gallery.
Photo after photo. Her leaving Apex Bio that morning. Her in the Whole Foods produce section, reaching for lettuce. Her in the Aston Martin’s passenger seat, laughing at something Easton had said. Her in this garage, thirty seconds ago, hand on the door handle.
Dozens of images. Hundreds. Angles that suggested multiple positions, multiple days, multiple—
Her stomach turned.
The violation was physical. A crawling sensation up her spine, like fingers on bare skin. Someone had watched her. Had documented her. Had reduced her life to pixels and metadata, stored on a memory card in a stranger’s pocket.
She looked up. Met the surveillance man’s eyes. He was younger than she had expected. Thirty, maybe. The kind of face that blended into crowds. Former military, probably—the way he had reached for his waistband suggested training, discipline, a code of conduct that didn’t include getting caught.