Chapter 156

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow over Evelyn Sinclair’s bedroom. She stretched lazily, her mind still foggy from sleep, when a sudden, intrusive thought—not her own—flashed through her consciousness.

"If only Nathan knew what really happened at the gala..."

Evelyn bolted upright, her heart pounding. That voice—sharp, calculating—belonged to Victoria Hayes, Nathan Blackwood’s scheming secretary. But how was she hearing it?

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to steady herself. The mental intrusion wasn’t just a fluke. Fragmented images flickered behind her eyelids: Victoria slipping a file into Nathan’s desk, a hushed phone call with someone named Preston Whitmore, and—most damning—a whispered conversation about falsifying financial records.

Evelyn’s breath hitched. This wasn’t just gossip. It was a conspiracy.

Downstairs, the clink of porcelain signaled Nathan’s presence. She hurried to the mirror, smoothing her sleep-tousled hair. If she confronted him outright, he’d dismiss her as paranoid. No, she needed proof.

At breakfast, Nathan barely glanced up from his tablet. "You’re quiet today," he remarked, his tone indifferent.

Evelyn forced a smile. "Just tired." Inside, Victoria’s voice hissed again: "One more week, and he’ll never suspect a thing."

Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup. One week until what?

Meanwhile, across town, Serena Whitmore scrolled through her phone, pausing at a leaked photo of Nathan and Evelyn at last month’s charity ball. The caption read: "Power Couple or Perfect Illusion?" She smirked. If only they knew the truth.

Her assistant, Lillian Graves, leaned in. "The press is already sniffing around. Should we issue a statement?"

Serena shook her head. "Let them speculate. The bigger the scandal, the better our leverage."

Back at the Blackwood estate, Evelyn feigned a headache and retreated to her study. She pulled out her laptop, typing furiously. If Victoria was planning something, there had to be a digital trail.

An hour later, buried in encrypted files, she found it: a series of offshore transactions, all funneled through a shell company named "Holloway Holdings." The last transfer? Five million dollars—dated yesterday.

Her blood ran cold. Nathan’s trust in Victoria was about to destroy everything.

But before she could act, her phone buzzed. An unknown number. The message was brief:

"You’re not the only one who hears secrets. Meet me. Midnight. The old pier."

Evelyn’s pulse spiked. Who else knew? And whose side were they on?

That night, the pier was shrouded in fog. Footsteps echoed on the wooden planks. Then, a figure emerged—silhouetted against the moonlight.

"Took you long enough," a familiar voice teased.

Evelyn’s eyes widened. "You?"

The smirk was unmistakable. "Surprised?"

The game had just begun.

Gabriel Ramirez carried an undeniable charm, particularly when dressed in formal attire. The impeccably tailored suit hugged his frame, painting the perfect picture of a dashing young man on the verge of proposing—his nervous energy barely contained beneath the polished exterior.

"Never judge a book by its cover," Isabelle Laurent mused, her sharp gaze dissecting him with skepticism. "At first glance, one might actually believe his morals match that pristine appearance." She let out a derisive chuckle. "So now he's here to propose? Has he miraculously reformed, or is this just another desperate bid for what he thinks is love?"

Her laughter dripped with disbelief, making it clear she wasn’t the type to be easily fooled.

"The idea that a gambler can just quit his addiction overnight, or that a man’s word is worth anything—both are complete fabrications. This man embodies both vices, which means this entire spectacle is nothing but a sham," Isabelle analyzed coldly. "He’s trying to manipulate Vivienne."

Agreed. Let’s see what his next move is.

As they settled into their seats, the crowd buzzed with anticipation, eager for the drama to unfold.

Julian and Genevieve Blackwood, standing nearby, exchanged knowing glances, equally stirred by the absurdity of the situation.

I knew it. He’s racked up another gambling debt—this time, a staggering fifty million. And his creditors have already sent threats.

Watching Gabriel on stage, flashing a bashful smile as he accepted congratulations from onlookers, the irony wasn’t lost on them.

Once they’re married, he’ll have full access to Vivienne’s hard-earned fortune, treating her wealth like his personal lifeline.

The audacity. To actually believe someone you’ve deceived would marry you and bail you out.

The Blackwood siblings shared the same thought—Gabriel’s scheme was nothing short of delusional.

Finding seats in the audience, they settled in, their expressions a mix of amusement and disbelief.

"Wait—there’s a live stream?" Isabelle suddenly remarked, her eyes narrowing. "A little warning would’ve been nice. You two, watch what you say," she murmured under her breath.

It was then that Evelyn Sinclair noticed not just the professional camera crew, but several assistants discreetly holding up their phones, undoubtedly broadcasting the event live.

If he gets rejected, it’ll be in front of the entire internet. Is he that confident, or is he banking on Vivienne’s kindness to guilt her into saying yes?

Julian and Genevieve leaned toward the latter—this reeked of emotional manipulation.

Noticing the live feed, Preston Whitmore and Donovan Sharpe quickly dispatched their team to investigate.

The gathering turned out to be a rap crew, assembled to hype up Gabriel Ramirez.

The production team ultimately greenlit the livestream, viewing it as a potential teaser for their next episode. Officially, streaming wasn’t banned, and since it was already underway, shutting it down now seemed pointless.

Evelyn Sinclair pulled out her phone to locate the livestream, realizing it would give her a clearer view of the stage—something hard to discern from their spot at the back of the audience.

At first, the stream, hosted by one of Gabriel’s rap buddies, had barely any viewers. But as whispers spread that this was the set of My Acting Skill and that Vivienne Monroe was the target of the proposal, the numbers skyrocketed.

Everyone flocked in to witness the spectacle.

"These flowers are all Vivienne’s favorites—my boy put his soul into this. Gabriel truly loves her. He even planned a surprise for the proposal. I’ve never seen him pour this much effort into anything before. He’s dead serious about building a life with her," the rapper hosting the stream explained, fielding the barrage of questions about the couple’s status.

The comments flooded in:

"Didn’t they break up?"

"When did they get back together?"

"They’re already getting married?"

"Breaking up doesn’t mean love dies. Besides, Mrs. Harrison has warmed up to Vivienne now," the rapper added, implying that past issues were mostly due to Claire Harrison’s nitpicking.

Hearing this, Evelyn scoffed internally.

Ah, so you’re a gambling addict too. No wonder you’re spewing lies without shame.

Julian and Genevieve Blackwood, also tuned into the stream, watched with a mix of disgust and amusement as the man acted like he was doing his best friend a favor by securing his future wife.

"More importantly, Gabriel already has the blessing of his future in-laws. Right now, Vivienne’s mother and uncle are keeping this a secret from her. Everyone’s waiting for the big romantic moment," the rapper continued, setting the stage for what he hoped would be a fairytale proposal.

The persuasive speech worked—comments poured in, showering the couple with well-wishes.

"They actually agreed? I remember how displeased they were when Vivienne and Gabriel were dating," Isabelle Laurent muttered, confused.

Evelyn found it odd too.

Initially, they’d resisted because they feared Vivienne would marry and slip from their control—no longer their cash cow. But now…

Julian and Genevieve were listening intently when someone suddenly shouted, "Quiet! She’s coming!"

The room fell silent. The overhead lights dimmed, leaving only the soft flicker of candlelight tracing the path.

A melancholic melody filled the air as Gabriel Ramirez began crooning a love ballad.

.

Though his voice was undeniably rich and smooth, to Evelyn Sinclair and the others, his performance reeked of artifice.

Then, a hesitant figure emerged onto the candlelit path, pausing briefly before the encouraging murmurs of the crowd urged her forward.

At the end of the flickering trail of light, a man knelt on one knee.

As the lights blazed back to life and cheers erupted, Evelyn watched as Adriana and Bartholomeo Constantine guided Vivienne Monroe toward the makeshift stage, while Claire Harrison observed silently from the shadows.

The live stream zoomed in, capturing the face of a stunning woman—her beauty natural, but her expression rigid, her complexion ghostly pale, betraying her turmoil.

Gabriel, either oblivious or indifferent to her distress, launched into his plea.

"Vivienne, I was wrong—so wrong. You know how much I love you. I can't breathe without you. I acted rashly, and I hurt you, but I swear—from this moment on, I'll do anything you ask. I've fixed all my problems. Please... give me another chance." His voice cracked with what sounded like genuine remorse.

After his impassioned speech, Gabriel opened a velvet ring box and produced a glittering diamond.

"Vivienne Monroe... marry me." His voice was thick with desperation. "I know you've always wanted a home. Let me be the one to give it to you. We'll have children—a warm, loving family. I swear on my life, this time, I won't fail you."

To an outsider, his words might have sounded like a plea to mend a fractured relationship. But Vivienne, Evelyn, and the Blackwood siblings knew the truth—he was talking about his gambling addiction.

Tears shimmered in Gabriel's eyes, his expression the picture of sincerity.

Evelyn scoffed internally. Damn, he’s good. With acting skills like that, he should be in Hollywood. Just as Isabelle Laurent had said—men were liars. And Gabriel wasn’t just any liar. He was a parasite, determined to drain Vivienne dry.