Chapter 567

Chapter 567:

Just behind that door was the living room where he had first suggested the contract marriage, speaking with the calm certainty of a man who always got what he wanted.

Had it really only been months ago? It felt like another lifetime.

Now the flat would be empty. He would not be here. He had no reason to stay. The thought left me hollow.

I slipped into my apartment and shut the door, but the silence pressed too heavily. I sank onto the sofa, staring at the opposite wall as if I could see straight through it—past plaster and paint and locked doors—into the ghost of what had been.

My phone buzzed. Another notification. People were reacting fast. Some dismissed the story, but plenty were already offering their congratulations. My chest ached, yet I couldn’t stop. I scrolled on, punishing myself with every swipe of my thumb. Hoping.

Hoping for what? For Ashton to release a statement denying it all? To declare that there was nothing between him and Lea?

The photo might have been staged, or it could have been nothing more than a business dinner, but I had seen them together on that cruise ship with my own eyes. No headline could erase that.

And yet he had come after me when I went on that reckless diving trip. He had risked his life. On that island, when everything else had failed, he had been my anchor.

That had to mean something, didn’t it?

I flung my phone aside and buried my face in a pillow with a groan.

Endless analysis would drive me mad. There was only one way to silence the questions clawing through me.

I had to see him, to talk to him. Even if it was the last time, I needed to know—to know if there was still a chance for us.

The boardroom was silent except for the faint hum of the air-conditioning. Twelve pairs of eyes were fixed on me, each one calculating, suspicious, or quietly resentful. The long mahogany table gleamed under the overhead lights.

gⱯlnσν𝓮𝓁s﹒𝒸оm opens doors to fiction

I sat at the head, as I always did, my right hand resting casually on the arm of the chair, though the bandages beneath my sleeve still itched and ached with every pulse.

One of the older men cleared his throat. His name was Laurent too, though barely anyone outside the family remembered his exact connection—second cousin once removed, perhaps. He was nearing seventy, with a heavy jaw and an air of self-importance.

“Ashton,” he began, his tone deliberately paternal, “no one here doubts your capabilities, but you’ve been through an ordeal. Stranded on an island, injured, feverish. Surely you must admit you need rest. Perhaps it would be wise to step back for a time. Let others shoulder the burden until you recover p>

Several others nodded. Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table. They thought they were subtle, but I had seen the look in their eyes the moment I entered the room. They had scented blood.

I steepled my fingers and regarded them without expression. “You believe Laurent Global Holdings requires someone else at the helm p>

“Only temporarily,” another chimed in, a distant uncle whose claim to the Laurent name was as thin as his hair. “Your health is paramount. And with these rumors about a Tltanova takeover, the market is jittery. A steady hand, someone with more… experience, might reassure investors p>

Experience. In their language, that meant age. And in their minds, my age was still an affront, a reminder that my grandfather had chosen me over all of them.