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Chapter 709:
“It’s nothing.” June turned back to her friend, to the martini, to the conversation that suddenly felt like armor. His retreat had been tactical, not genuine. He hadn’t stopped watching; he had simply become invisible. He had made promises, of course. But June knew men like Crawford didn’t understand promises—they only understood possession. “Just someone who hasn’t learned to take no for an answer p>
She raised her own glass. Drank deeply. And refused, absolutely refused, to look up again.
But she felt him. Felt his eyes, his hunger, his certainty that this—Easton, the check, the destruction of her walls—was just a phase. A mistake. Something she would recover from, given time.
Crawford Love had patience. Had resources. Had the particular arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything worth wanting.
And June Erickson, who had spent her life learning to survive men like him, felt something cold settle in her chest.
𝖬𝗈rе 𝗇𝘰𝘃𝗲𝘭s о𝘯 𝗴a𝗅𝗻𝗈𝗏е𝘭𝘴.сom
Not fear. Determination.
She had chosen Easton. Had let him tear down her defenses, had accepted his love, had agreed to learn need.
She would not let Crawford take that from her. Not with surveillance. Not with champagne. Not with the particular threat of his continued, patient, absolutely inevitable presence.
“Another round,” she said to the manager, and her voice was steady, controlled, absolutely certain. “And—” she paused, let the silence stretch, let the shadow on the balcony understand that she knew, that she saw, that she was not afraid, “—please inform the gentleman that his gift is appreciated. But unnecessary. I already have everything I need p>
The manager bowed and retreated.
Vera was watching her with an expression June couldn’t quite read—pride, concern, something that might have been recognition.
“You’re playing with fire,” Vera said.
“I’ve been burned before.” June smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “I know how to handle the heat p>
The oak door to the penthouse apartment swung shut behind June with a soft, pneumatic hiss, sealing out the club’s ambient noise, the clink of crystal, the low murmur of deals being made in shadowed corners.
She stood in the entryway, her back pressed against the cool wood, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
The apartment was silent. Empty. The particular silence of the penthouse Easton had secured for her—a space that had been hers for less than a week, still unfamiliar in its textures, its echoes, its absolute lack of history.
June kicked off her heels. The Louboutins hit the marble floor with a clatter that seemed too loud, invasive. She stepped onto the Persian rug in bare feet, the wool prickling against her arches, and felt something in her chest unclench by half a degree.
The club had been a mistake. Vera’s advice—apologize, explain, let him teach you—still rang in her ears, but the execution had been derailed by Crawford’s presence, his champagne, his eyes from the balcony above. She had meant to call Easton. Had planned to. But the words had stuck, and instead she had issued a challenge, a declaration of war disguised as self-sufficiency.
She walked toward the living room, her hand finding the wall switch, hesitating.
The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed Manhattan in its midnight glory, a constellation of light against black water. And silhouetted against that view, backlit by the city’s glow, a figure stood with a glass in hand.