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Chapter 715:

And she watched, at 2:47 AM, as Easton emerged from the lobby—his jacket over his arm, his tie indeed loose, his stride unhurried and satisfied, the walk of a man who had spent the evening exactly where he wanted to be.

The Maybach’s door opened.

Cole stepped out.

Easton heard the footsteps before he saw the man.

Heavy. Deliberate. The particular rhythm of someone who had been waiting, planning, rehearsing exactly what they would say and exactly how they would say it—and had now abandoned the script in favor of pure, animal response.

He stopped. Turned.

Cole Compton stood three feet away, blocking the path to the Aston Martin. The streetlight caught him at a bad angle, carving shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, the redness of his eyes, the absolute destruction of a man who had not slept in days.

𝖲𝗮𝘷е 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘧𝘢𝗏𝘰𝘳i𝗍𝖾 nо𝗏𝗲𝗅𝗌 𝗼ո ѕ.𝖼𝗈m

“Three hours,” Cole said. His voice was gravel and broken glass, the sound of a throat that had been screaming into silence. “You were in there for three hours p>

Easton said nothing. He assessed: the stance, too wide—alcohol or exhaustion or both; the hands, clenched, white-knuckled, ready; the eyes, fixed on Easton’s collar, his untucked shirt, the particular dishevelment of a man who had been comfortable, relaxed, at home.

“Mr. Compton.” Easton’s voice was level, professional, absolutely infuriating in its calm. “Is there something I can help you with p>

“Help me?” Cole laughed—a sound like tearing paper. “You can help me by staying the hell away from my wife p>

“Ex-wife.” Easton didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. “The divorce was finalized last week. Or did you miss that between your stalking sessions p>

Cole’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped—involuntary, the tell of a man who had lost control and was pretending he could find it.

“She’s still mine,” he said. “Legally. Emotionally. In every way that matters. And you—” he stepped closer, close enough that Easton could smell him, whiskey and desperation and the particular sourness of unwashed skin, “—you’re just the latest in a long line of men who think they can take what’s mine p>

Easton smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

“You’re confusing possession with connection, Cole. June was never yours. You just held the paperwork. And now—” he gestured, casual, dismissive, “—you don’t even have that p>

Cole moved.

His hand shot out and closed around Easton’s lapel, shoving him backward with a force that should have been surprising but wasn’t—not given everything Easton knew about this man’s capacity for violence, for self-destruction, for the absolute inability to accept no.

Easton’s back hit the Aston Martin’s door. The metal was cold through his shirt, unyielding. He let Cole hold him there. Let the man’s breath come hot against his face. Let the tremor in Cole’s fingers communicate everything words couldn’t.

“Listen to me,” Cole hissed. “Listen carefully. I know people. I know things. I can make your life p>