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Chapter 824:
“Would you have believed me?” June’s smile was gentle and sad. “I didn’t even believe myself. Not until I saw Caleb’s headstone. Not until I realized I’d spent three years loving a ghost and hating the man wearing his face p>
She squared her shoulders. The moment of vulnerability was gone, locked away behind polished marble walls.
“So today,” she continued, “I told him. I looked him in the eye and explained exactly what he was to me. A substitute. A flawed copy. A walking memorial.” She sipped her champagne. “He didn’t take it well p>
Vera let out a sharp laugh that made the guests at nearby tables turn their heads. “I bet he didn’t. The great Cole Compton, reduced to a knockoff handbag.” She raised her glass again. “To the cruelest, most well-deserved, most brilliant takedown I have ever witnessed p>
They drained their glasses once more. The sommelier appeared with a second bottle, but Vera waved him away.
“So what now?” she asked. “1.2 billion dollars is no small sum. Not even for you p>
𝗧r𝗲𝘯𝖽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘯𝗈vе𝘭ѕ 𝗼ո 𝗀𝖺l𝘯𝘰𝗏е𝗅s.с𝘰𝘮
June’s expression shifted. The predatory edge emerged — the woman who had built a pharmaceutical empire from nothing while pretending to be a trophy wife.
“I am taking over the R&D division at Apex Bio,” she said. “Officially. Brogan has been asking for months. With this capital injection, I can accelerate the Gen-2 trials, expand the patent portfolio, and finally —” her eyes blazed — “finally operate without any man trying to use my money as leverage p>
Vera raised her glass, brimming with genuine pride. “To the future queen of biopharmaceuticals p>
Laughter filled the private room, warm and unrestrained, bright with hope. But in the hallway beyond the door, out of their sight, the wheels of fate were already turning in the darkest of directions.
A dishwasher in a stained uniform, pushing a food cart, stared fixedly through the crack in the door, something like hellfire burning behind his eyes.
The kitchen of the Michelin-starred restaurant was shrouded in steam, the industrial dishwashers roaring at a deafening pitch.
Alycia Beasley — the socialite physician who had once moved effortlessly among high society in Dior haute couture — now wore a grimy gray uniform reeking of grease and food waste. Her hair, once meticulously styled, hung in a messy ponytail secured with a rubber band at the nape of her neck. Her hands — once exquisitely groomed, capable of playing piano — were now raw, swollen, and cracked with bleeding fissures from prolonged exposure to harsh alkaline detergent.
Ever since Cole had frozen all her assets and expelled her from Fifth Avenue, she had become the laughingstock of New York City. No reputable firm would touch her name. To evade loan sharks and survive, she had assumed a false identity and hidden herself away in this dim, windowless kitchen, earning fifteen dollars an hour.
“Hurry up, Number 89! The bone china from the VIP private dining room needs cleaning — immediately!” The kitchen manager strode over and kicked the trash bin beside her without breaking his stride.
Alycia clenched her teeth. A flash of venomous resentment crossed her eyes, but she lowered her head and scrubbed faster, dirty water splashing up onto her face.