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Chapter 812:
The rain hammered against the asphalt like a thousand angry fists.
Cole Compton lay sprawled in a freezing puddle, his thousand-dollar suit soaked through with dirty water and his own blood. The divorce settlement agreement clutched in his trembling hands was already dissolving at the edges, black ink bleeding into gray pulp. He knew it was merely a duplicate — a meaningless copy of the true document — but as the wet paper disintegrated, it felt as though their entire marriage was dissolving with it, turning to ash and mud.
Two imposing security guards in black raincoats descended the marble steps of the luxury apartment building. Their boots splashed through the shallow river running along the curb.
“Mr. Compton.” The taller guard’s voice was flat, mechanical. “Your restraining order remains in effect. You are in violation by being within five hundred feet of the premises p>
Cole did not look up. His eyes were fixed on the spot where June’s camel-colored coat had vanished through the revolving doors. Easton Hahn’s hand had been on the small of her back. The image burned behind Cole’s retinas like acid.
“You need to leave now, sir, or we will be forced to contact the NYPD p>
The word substitute echoed through Cole’s skull. It ricocheted off the bone, gathering momentum, shredding what remained of his sanity. June’s voice came to him, cold and precise: You were nothing but a living stand-in.
𝗕𝘦 р𝗮r𝗍 𝗼𝘧 o𝗎𝗋 𝘤om𝘮𝘶𝘯іt𝘆 𝗈n
Cole pushed himself up from the pavement. His palms slipped in the mud. He fell back hard, his knee cracking against the concrete curb. The pain was distant, irrelevant.
He crawled forward on all fours. His fingers closed around the sodden divorce papers, and he lifted them carefully, cradling them against his chest like a wounded bird. The words “Divorce Settlement Agreement” had blurred into a blue-black smear, but they were still legible. Still real.
“Sir.” The guard’s tone sharpened. “Final warning p>
Cole staggered to his feet. Water poured from his hair and down his face, mixing with the blood from his bitten lip. He did not wipe it away. He walked past the guards, past the doorman who refused to meet his eyes, past the lobby where June’s perfume still lingered like a ghost.
The black Maybach sat idling at the curb. Cole yanked the rear door open and collapsed onto the leather seat. The interior smelled of expensive cologne and cold rain. He did not start the engine. He did not turn on the heat.
He sat in the dark with the wet paper pressed against his heart, staring up at the twenty-third floor.
The window glowed warm and yellow. He imagined June standing by the fireplace, her hair loose, her shoulders finally unburdened. He imagined Easton handing her a cup of tea — their fingers brushing, their eyes meeting.