Chapter 151

No.1

The fluorescent lights of the NYPD Midtown South Precinct hummed with a sterile, indifferent buzz.They bleached all the color from the room, turning the pale green walls a sickly gray and Elisa's skin to porcelain.

She sat on a cold metal chair, her hands resting on the steel table. The angry, purple bruise on her right wrist, where the drunk man had grabbed her, stood out like a brand.

A tired-looking officer across from her was typing slowly on a keyboard, his voice a monotone drone."So, you're stating that the suspect made an unwanted advance, and when you refused, he grabbed you."

Elisa nodded, her throat tight."Yes."

The officer sighed, a sound that suggested this was just another Saturday night drama between people with too much money and not enough sense.

"And you want to press charges?"

Before Elisa could answer, Preston Vance, who had been holding court with another officer in the corner,strode over. "Of course she's pressing charges. This was'a clear case of assault. I'm advising Ms. Wilder in this matter, and I can assure you, we have the resources to see this is pursued to the fulest extent of the law."

No.2

Elisa's stomach turned. He wasn't her advisor. He was an opportunist.

She reached for her phone, needing to hear a real ally's voice. She dialed Harvey Vance. Voicemail. She tried Alastair. Straight to voicemail. The feeling of being utterly, terrifyingly alone began to creep in,cold and familiar.

Just then, the atmosphere in the precinct shifted.The low hum of activity quieted. Maeve Kearney's frantic,near-hysterical phone call had been like a drill to August's skull. He had been on his way out of the city, intending to put the entire disastrous evening behind him, but her words had stopped him cold.The image she painted-of Elisa being hauled to a precinct, with Preston Vance playing the role of her

white knight-ignited a possessive, territorial fury that eclipsed his earlier disgust. He wasn't there to rescue her. He was there to reclaim what was his and put the Vances back in their place. The precinct captain emerged from his office, a forced,obsequious smile plastered on his face.

He was followed by August.

He wore the same impeccably tailored suit from the party, though the knot of his tie was slightly loosened, a rare sign of haste. He moved through the grimy police station like a king inspecting a slum. On his arm, clinging to him like a designer accessory,was Allena Mills.

A top corporate lawyer from Skadden, Arps flanked them, his briefcase held like a shield.

No.3

August's eyes swept the room, cold and dismissive.They passed over the officers, the drab furniture,and then, for a fraction of a second, over Elisa. There was no recognition. No concern. It was the look you give a piece of furniture that's in your way.

Allena, however, met Elisa's gaze. A flicker of triumph, sharp and cruel, flashed in her eyes before

being replaced by a mask of perfectly calibrated worry.

The lawyer spoke in low tones with the captain.Papers were produced. A pen was signed. The entire bureaucratic process, which had been dragging on for over an hour, was condensed into less than three minutes.

Preston saw his moment. He walked toward August,a challenging smirk on his face. "Chambers. You're late."

August finally turned his head, his gaze landing on .Preston. His voice was devoid of all wvarmth, like the surface of a frozen lake. "My wife. It's not your place to worry about her."①

The words "my wife" were a territorial claim,a statement of ownership, not affection. They were a warning shot fired at Preston, not a comfort offered to Elisa.①

No.4

Allena tugged gently on August's arm, her voice a soft murmur. "August, let's go. The air in here...it's making me feel ill."

Her gesture was a silent, powerful declaration to

everyone in the room: He is with me. He cares about my comfort.

The lawyer nodded to August. "It's all taken care of,Mr. Chambers. You're free to leave."

August turned, ready to walk out with Allena, without a single word to Elisa. He was simply going to leave her there.

"Ms. Wilder," Preston's voice cut through the silence,loud enough for August to hear. "Since your husband doesn't seem to care, allow me to see you home safely."

The words were a calculated strike, and they hit their mark.

No.5

August stopped. He turned back slowly. His eyes, for the first time, settled on Elisa. It wasn't a look of concern. It was a look of assessment, the way you'd inspect a damaged asset that was causing you a problem.

Elisa had remained silent through the entire grotesque theater. She watched them all-the preening rival, the self-serving opportunist, the cold,indifferent husband. Her heart felt like a dead weight

in her chest.

She stood up, the metal chair scraping harshly against the linoleum floor. She picked up her handbag from the table. She walked toward the precinct door, her gaze fixed forward, looking at no one.

Seeing Elisa's cold indifference, a flash of annoyance crossed Allena's face. She needed to be the center of his world. She lifted her hand, the one not clutching August's arm, and let out a tiny, breathy gasp.

'"Darling," she said, her voice laced wih a sudden,fragile pain. "My hand. I think I scratched it on the door earlier. It's starting to sting."

August's attention snapped to her instantly. His entire demeanor changed. The cold mask of indifference dissolved, replaced by a look of tender,urgent concern.

No.6

"Let me see," he murmured, his voice low and gentle.He took her hand as if it were a priceless, wounded bird, turning it over under the harsh fluorescent light to examine a scratch so faint it was practically

invisible.

Elisa paused at the door, her hand on the cold metal push bar. She turned her head just enough to see it.

To see her husband, who hadn't even glanced at the deep,ugly bruise on her own wrist, now fussing over a phantom scratch on his mistress's hand as if it were a mortal wound.

Preston moved to stand beside her, his voice a low,venomous whisper in her ear. "You see? That's the man you chose."

She didn't respond. She pushed the door open and walked out into the biting chill of the New York night.

Inside, August looked up from Allena's hand, his eyes drawn to the empty doorway. He saw her back,ramrod straight, disappearing into te darkness. A deep frown creased his brow, and his expression hardened into something dark and unreadable.

No.7

Allena felt his focus shift. She tightened her grip on his hand, her voice a soft, needy whine. "August, it really hurts."

He looked back down at her, his attention

successfully recaptured.

Outside, the city noise was a dull roar that did nothing to fill the echoing silence in her soul. She pulled her thin jacket tighter, the cold seeping into her bones, mirroring the chill that had taken root in her heart. For a few blocks, she just walked,aimlessly, letting the indifferent crowds of a Saturday night swallow her whole. The feeling of being terrifyingly alone, which had begun in the precinct,now bloomed into a vast, desolate certainty. She was an island, and the tide was rising.

A black Maybach glided to a silent stop at the curb beside her. The tinted rear window slid down. It was a driver, his face calm and professional.

"Ms. Wilder," he said."Mr.Cromwell sent me. He was in a secure meeting and couldn't take your call, but he was notified you tried to reach him on the secure line and asked me to find you immediately. He said you wouldn't call that line unless it was an emergency."