Chapter 708:
“I have many problems.”
“Your problem is that you think love is a weakness.” Vera leaned forward, close enough that June could smell her perfume—expensive, complex, absolutely certain of its effect. “You think needing someone makes you vulnerable. But look at Easton. Look at what he risked tonight. Not his money—” she gestured, dismissive, “—his money is nothing. He risked you. Risked your good opinion. Risked the chance that you’d be angry, that you’d pull away, that you’d—” she stopped, let the silence stretch, “—that you’d finally, completely close the door.”
June thought of the laboratory. Of Easton’s fury, his gentleness, the absolute certainty with which he had destroyed her offering.
“He didn’t risk anything,” she said. “He knew—he knows—I wouldn’t—”
“He didn’t know.” Vera’s voice was soft now. Almost gentle. “He hoped. That’s the difference, June. Between you and him. You plan, you prepare, you control every variable until there’s no risk left. He—” she smiled, something sad in it, “—he just loves you. Openly. Absolutely. Without guarantee or protection or the particular safety of being able to say ‘I paid for this, I can walk away.'”
June’s throat tightened. She reached for her martini, finally, and took a sip that burned going down.
“What do I do?”
Vera sat back. Considered. “You apologize. You explain—not the check, that’s obvious, but why. Why you needed that distance. Why you’re scared. And then—” she paused, let the anticipation build, “—then you let him teach you. Let him show you that need isn’t weakness. That connection isn’t control. That love—” she raised her glass, “—that love is the only thing worth the risk.”
а𝘤𝘁𝘪vе 𝗰𝗈𝗺𝘮𝘂𝘯𝗂𝘁𝘆 𝗈𝗻 𝗀a𝗹n𝗈𝘃е𝗹ѕ.с𝘰𝗆
June was opening her mouth to respond—gratitude, argument, she wasn’t sure which—when the club’s manager appeared at their booth. Silver tray in hand. Single bottle. A label that June recognized, though she had never ordered it herself.
“Compliments of the gentleman,” the manager said. “With his congratulations on your victory.”
June looked up. Toward the bar, the entrance, the spaces where patrons gathered.
No one. No obvious sender.
Her eyes found the balcony. The second floor. The shadowed corner where the lighting was deliberately dim, where someone could observe without being observed.
Crawford.
She couldn’t see his face. But she knew the posture. The stillness. The particular patience of a man who had learned to wait for exactly the right moment. Of course he knew—Crawford’s information network was legendary, probably with a source sitting in the courtroom itself. His reach was one of the things that made him so dangerous.
He raised a glass. Invisible from below, but she felt the gesture. Felt the weight of his attention, his obsession, his absolute refusal to accept that she had chosen someone else.
“June?” Vera’s voice, concerned.
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