Chapter 981:

🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙

A sound cut through the rush of the water. The crunch of expensive leather shoes on the gravel path.

Cailin lifted her head.

Through the shimmering mist of the fountain, a man was walking toward her. He wore a dark grey, impeccably tailored suit. His face was a mask of power and quiet authority.

It was the same face from the photograph in the dossier.

Donovan Van Doren.

The sound of the fountain seemed to muffle the rest of the world. Donovan Van Doren stopped a few feet from Cailin’s bench. He took a cigar from his coat, his movements unhurried and precise, and lit it with a heavy, gold lighter.

The small flame illuminated the harsh, aristocratic lines of his face. The set of his jaw, the arch of his brow, they were a cruel, distorted mirror of her own.

𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘴.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Cailin stared, her stomach churning with a toxic cocktail of hatred and a horrifying sense of connection. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind.

Donovan sensed her stare. He turned his head, a slight frown creasing his brow as he took in the pale, disheveled woman on the bench. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over her. He saw a nobody, another anonymous face in a city full of them, perhaps looking for a handout or a connection. He dismissed her, turning to walk away.

“Donovan Van Doren.”

The words were quiet, but they cut through the air like shards of ice. She had spoken his name without deference, without title, her voice dripping with a contempt so profound it was almost a physical force.

He stopped. He turned back slowly, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous curiosity. Very few people in New York dared to address him with such familiarity. Certainly not a woman who looked as if a strong breeze could knock her over.

He took a long, slow draw from his cigar. “Do I know you?” he asked, his voice a low, dismissive rumble.

The question landed like a punch to her gut. She struggled to her feet. Her legs were shaking, but she forced her spine to go rigid, meeting his arrogant gaze without flinching.

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Of course not. A king on his throne doesn’t notice the ants he crushes underfoot.”

Donovan’s expression hardened. The air crackled with a sudden tension. He did not like being spoken to this way. He did not like losing control of a situation. He was about to signal for his security detail, hidden discreetly nearby.

But then Cailin took a shaky step forward. The wind caught the hem of her trench coat, and for a split second, he saw the pale blue cotton of a hospital gown underneath.

.

.

.