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Chapter 707:
June had been a member for three years. Had used it rarely—occasional dinners, occasional meetings, the particular luxury of space that felt safe because it was invisible.
Tonight, she needed the invisibility.
She sat in a corner booth, velvet curved around her, a martini untouched on the table. The club was quiet. Weeknight, late, the kind of hour when even the dedicated deal-makers had gone home to families or mistresses or the particular loneliness of success.
“You’re staring at that like it owes you money p>
June looked up.
Vera slid into the booth opposite her, red-soled heels catching the light, martini already in hand. She was dressed for somewhere else—somewhere louder, younger, more demanding of attention—but her eyes were sharp, assessing, seeing too much as always.
“Congratulations,” Vera said. “On the sentencing. Susan Beasley in federal prison. Richard destroyed. The whole rotten empire—” she raised her glass, “—finally, completely, yours p>
June didn’t raise hers. “It doesn’t feel like mine p>
“Because you didn’t destroy them personally?” Vera sipped, considering. “Because you let the law do what you wanted to do with your own hands?” She set the glass down. Leaned forward. “That’s growth, June. That’s—” she stopped, head tilting, “—that’s not why you’re here. Why you’re drinking alone in the dark like a tragic heroine p>
June laughed. It sounded wrong. “I wrote Easton a check p>
𝘕o𝘷𝖾𝘭ѕ i𝗇 𝘁r𝘦n𝘥 𝗈n
Vera’s eyebrows rose. “A check p>
“One million dollars. For legal services. Protection. The—” June stopped, pressed her palms to her eyes, “—the investigation into my parents. Everything p>
“And p>
“And he tore it up.” June dropped her hands. Looked at her friend, her ally, the one person who might understand. “He tore it into pieces and told me—” she stopped, swallowed, “—he told me he wanted me to need him. To choose him. Not because I had to, but because p>
“Because he’s in love with you.” Vera’s voice was flat. Absolute. “Because he’s been in love with you since before you knew his name, and he’s been waiting, and watching, and hoping you’d finally see him.” She took another sip. “And instead, you offered him money. Professional distance. The particular insult of treating his devotion like a transaction p>
June felt her cheeks burn. “I was trying to protect him. The investigation—my parents’ death—it’s dangerous. People have died. I didn’t want him p>
“You didn’t want to owe him.” Vera set her glass down, hard enough to make June flinch. “You didn’t want to need him. Because needing means vulnerability. Means risk. Means—” she stopped, softened just slightly, “—means admitting that you’re not actually alone. That someone else’s choices matter to you. That you could be hurt—not by their betrayal, but by their loss p>
June stared at her martini. The clear liquid, the single olive, the particular simplicity of a drink that was exactly what it appeared to be.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered.
“Do what p>
“Let someone in. Let someone—” she stopped, searched for words, “—let someone matter. Without controlling it. Without—” she laughed, bitter, “—without writing a check to make sure I can walk away p>
Vera was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You know what your problem is p>