[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 784:
The hospital security guards finally wandered over at a deliberately unhurried pace. They pulled Henderson back with minimal effort and no apology. “Alright, that’s enough,” one of them said flatly. He pointed at Alycia without looking at her. “You—get out. And don’t come back p>
Alycia didn’t bother with her belongings. She scrambled to her feet, pressed both hands over her red, blistering face, and ran through the revolving doors as fast as she could. Laughter and insults followed her out into the street.
It was a gray, drizzly day in Manhattan. The cold rain fell steadily, soaking through her clothes and mixing with the coffee still cooling on her skin. Alycia walked without direction, head down, shoulders hunched. Despair and hatred gnawed at her like something feral. She blamed June for all of it. If June had never come back, she would still be Dr. Alycia Beasley, engaged to Cole Compton, living the life she had been promised. June had taken everything. And she would pay for it. Dearly.
She walked for hours, unaware of where her feet were taking her, until she found herself in the Meatpacking District. She turned down a dark alley and pushed open a heavy metal door marked with a single red rose. The Crimson—an exclusive underground bar where only the wealthiest and most reckless members of New York society were permitted entry. She had spent countless nights here with Cole, drinking champagne in the dark.
The bouncer looked her up and down, his lip curling. “We don’t serve trash here,” he said, crossing his arms.
Alycia pulled out the last crumpled twenty-dollar bill in her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Just one drink,” she said, her voice barely holding. “That’s all I want p>
He stared at the bill, then shrugged and stepped aside. “Don’t cause trouble p>
The bar was dim and close, smelling of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. The music was loud. The air hummed with the particular energy of people doing things they didn’t want their spouses to know about. Alycia moved to the far corner of the bar and ordered the strongest vodka they had. She paid in cash and downed the shot in one motion, wincing as the alcohol burned through her.
𝖳𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘴𝖺𝗻𝗱𝗌 𝗈𝗳 𝗋еa𝖽𝖾𝗿ѕ 𝗈𝗇
She drank shot after shot, trying to numb the pain in her face and the deeper agony underneath it. The world blurred at its edges, and all she could think about was June. She would find her. She would make her suffer. She would make her beg.
She was reaching for her fourth shot when a cold chill moved down her spine—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Alycia turned slowly, her movements weighted by alcohol. She looked up at the half-hidden VIP balcony on the second floor.
And there he was.
Cole Compton sat alone on a black leather sofa, swirling a glass of single malt whiskey. The dim light carved shadows across his face, making him look like something fallen and remote. He was looking directly down at her.
There was no anger in his eyes. No hatred. No disgust. Only a vast, absolute emptiness. He looked at her the way one looks at something dead on the floor—something insignificant and unclean that doesn’t warrant a second glance.