[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]

Chapter 693:

The woman in the mirror didn’t look like someone who had just been reminded that her life was being documented by a man who couldn’t accept no.

But she felt it. The violation. The anger. The cold, calculating certainty that Crawford Love had just made himself her enemy.

Not her rival. Not her suitor.

Her enemy.

And June Erickson didn’t lose to enemies.

The penthouse elevator opened directly into the apartment’s foyer—a space of white oak and brushed steel, minimalist to the point of sterility. June stepped across the threshold, heard the door seal behind her, felt the electronic lock engage with a soft click.

Her shoulders dropped. Half an inch. Enough to notice if you were looking.

Easton was looking.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

𝖢𝗁і𝗇𝖾𝗌𝘦 nо𝘷𝗲𝗹𝘴 𝘁𝘳а𝗇𝘀𝘭𝗮𝘵𝖾𝖽 оn

“I’m not—” She stopped. Looked at her hands. They were trembling, barely perceptible, the aftermath of adrenaline and violation and the strange, dangerous safety of being here. With him.

“Shower,” Easton said. “Food. Then we talk p>

“I don’t need p>

“You need both.” He was already moving toward the kitchen, shedding his suit jacket, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. “I need both. That was—” he paused at the kitchen island, his hands finding the marble edge, “—that was more than I planned for tonight p>

June watched him. The way his shoulders held tension. The way his fingers gripped the counter like it might float away.

He had been violent for her. Efficient, controlled, absolutely terrifying violence. And now he was offering her pasta.

“I’ll cook,” she heard herself say.

Easton turned. “You don’t have to p>

“I want to.” The words surprised her. She hadn’t cooked in months. Hadn’t had a kitchen that felt safe, a space that felt hers. “I need—” she stopped, searched for honesty, “—I need to do something with my hands. Something normal p>

Easton studied her for three seconds. Then he nodded, stepped back from the island, and gestured toward the refrigerator.

“Be my guest p>

The kitchen was Easton’s, but it had been designed by someone who understood function. Professional-grade range. A knife block with blades that actually held an edge. A pantry organized with the precision of a laboratory supply closet.

June found tomatoes, garlic, olive oil. Found a pot, filled it with water, set it to boil. The familiar motions—chopping, sautéing, stirring—settled something in her chest.

She was making puttanesca. The recipe her mother had taught her, back when cooking was love and not survival. The recipe she had made for Caleb once, in a borrowed kitchen in Geneva.

She pushed the memory away.

“You’re thinking about him p>

Easton’s voice came from behind her, soft, not accusatory.

June’s knife paused over a tomato. “I’m thinking about a lot of things p>

“You’re thinking about the camera. About what he saw. About what he has p>

The water boiled. June added salt. Too much—her hand jerked, the salt cellar tipping, white crystals cascading into the pot.

“Damn p>

She reached for the pot, intending to dump it, start over.

Easton’s hand closed over hers. Warm. Steady.

“Leave it p>

“It’s ruined. It’s p>