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Chapter 696:

But she didn’t know that yet. She thought she had won tonight. Thought she had drawn a line, made a threat, established terms.

Crawford smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

Let her believe it. Let her sleep in her lawyer’s bed, eat his food, pretend she was safe. Let her build her fortress, her walls, her illusions of control.

He had patience. He had resources. He had time.

And he had something she didn’t know about yet. Something that would change everything.

Crawford set the phone down and turned back to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent and magnificent.

“Soon,” he whispered to the glass. “Soon, June. You’ll understand p>

The coffee bar occupied a corner of Apex Bio’s lobby, all chrome and reclaimed wood, the kind of third-wave pretension that June had once found amusing. Now she just wanted caffeine, anonymity, the thirty seconds of peace it took to order a black coffee and retreat to her office.

She had left Easton sleeping. Had kissed his forehead, written a note on his phone’s lock screen—”Lab. Back by six.”—and slipped out before dawn.

Save your favorite novels on.com

She needed space. Distance. Time to process what was happening to her.

The barista was new. Young. Over-caffeinated himself, probably, judging by the tremor in his hand as he marked her cup.

“Americano. Room for cream p>

“Black p>

“Sure thing. That’ll be p>

“June p>

The voice came from behind her. Close enough to feel the breath, the warmth, the absolute certainty of someone who had never learned to respect personal space.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Her hand found her phone, thumb hovering over the emergency contact—Easton, already programmed, already waiting.

“Don’t.” Crawford’s voice was softer now. Almost gentle. “Don’t call him. Not yet. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking p>

June turned.

He looked different. The bespoke armor was gone—no suit, no tie, no polished shoes that cost more than most people’s rent. He wore a dark trench coat, collar up, hands in pockets. The kind of anonymity that cost more than visibility.

His eyes were the same. Hungry. Calculating. Absolutely certain that she would eventually belong to him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“I’m not supposed to be a lot of things.” He gestured toward the corner, a booth partially obscured by a pillar. No cameras. No clear sightlines. “Please. Five minutes. Then I’ll leave. I’ll—” his jaw tightened, “—I’ll respect your boundaries. From now on p>

June should have walked away. Should have called security, called Easton, called the police if necessary.

She followed him to the booth.

They sat across from each other, the table between them a neutral zone. Crawford’s hands emerged from his pockets and folded on the surface. She noticed the knuckles—red, swollen, recently damaged.

“You hit something,” she said. Not a question.

“I hit a wall.” He smiled, self-deprecating, trying for charm and missing by miles. “After my man came back. After—” he stopped, swallowed, “—after I realized how badly I’d miscalculated p>

“Surveillance isn’t miscalculation. It’s pathology p>