Chapter 972:

🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙

The pale light of his encrypted phone reflected in Hilliard’s eyes, cold and sharp. He had killed the monitor feeds, but the game was still playing out in the palm of his hand. He tapped the screen, his thumb hovering over the reply that would dictate their next move: “Rest up today. I’ll come to your brownstone tonight at nine.”

SEND.

The message shot into the digital ether. He spent the daylight hours in calculated preparation, locking away the blueprints of the Van Doren estate into his eidetic memory.

When night finally descended, he stood, the motion fluid and precise. He adjusted the custom cufflink on his right wrist, the metal cool against his skin. It was slightly heavier than its partner, the weight a small, deadly secret.

He shrugged on a black cashmere coat, the expensive fabric settling over his broad shoulders like a shadow.

𝖴p𝘥𝘢𝘁е𝘀 𝘦𝘷𝘦r𝘺 𝘄𝖾𝗲𝘬 𝗼n 𝗴𝖺𝗅no𝘃𝗲𝘭𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝘮

Hilliard walked out of the monitoring room. The sharp clap of his leather shoes on the concrete floor echoed in the silence, a cold, rhythmic beat counting down to something final.

A bulletproof SUV idled at the curb, a dark beast in the Manhattan night. Jackson held the door open. Hilliard ducked inside without a word.

The vehicle melted into the river of traffic, heading for the old-money elegance of the Upper East Side. It pulled up to Giselle’s meticulously maintained brownstone, its windows dark.

Hilliard stepped out of the car. The night wind whipped at the hem of his coat. He looked up at the building, his eyes cataloging the subtle gleam of security cameras hidden in the ornate architecture.

He pressed the brass bell.

The heavy oak door swung inward less than three seconds later.

Giselle stood there, framed in the warm light of the foyer. She wore a wine-red silk robe that clung to her curves, her blonde hair artfully disheveled. Her eyes shone with a raw, undisguised thrill.

A perfectly engineered smile touched Hilliard’s lips, a mask of warmth that didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped across the threshold.

Giselle shut the door, the sound a heavy, final thud. She immediately moved closer, her body heat radiating toward him as she reached for his coat.

Hilliard sidestepped the overtly intimate gesture, his movement smooth and seemingly casual. He hung the coat himself on a nearby rack, his gaze sweeping the ground floor, noting the placement of every security sensor.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” Giselle said, her voice a low purr.

She led him toward a lavish living room, dominated by a marble fireplace. Two glasses of aged bourbon sat waiting on a low table, ice sweating in the dim light. She handed one to him.

Hilliard accepted the glass, swirling the amber liquid. The ice clinked softly. “A beautiful home,” he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. “You have impeccable taste.”

The flattery landed exactly as he intended. Giselle preened, her vanity swelling. “I designed it all myself. My father gave me complete freedom.”

“He must trust your judgment implicitly,” Hilliard murmured, taking a slow sip. He let the compliment hang in the air before adding, “I imagine he affords you the same freedom in your work for the Van Doren Group.”

He had pivoted. The hook was cast.

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Message from Noa: We’re in the final quarter of the year, my dear ones, hang in there! God loves you and Noa wishes you all the best. (ɔO‿=)ɔ ♥

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