Chapter 26

The morning sun cast golden streaks across Evelyn Sinclair's penthouse as she paced nervously by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through her phone for the tenth time that hour. Still no reply from Nathan Blackwood.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lillian Graves chided, placing a steaming cup of chamomile tea on the marble counter. "The man clearly needs space after what happened at the gala."

Evelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. The memory of Vincent Holloway's drunken advances still burned fresh in her mind—how Nathan had intervened with that dangerous glint in his eyes, how his knuckles had turned white around his champagne flute.

A sharp knock at the door startled them both.

"Expecting someone?" Lillian arched an eyebrow.

Evelyn's pulse quickened as she smoothed her silk robe. "Not unless..." Her breath hitched. Could it be him?

But when she swung the door open, it was Preston Whitmore standing there, his usually immaculate suit rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. "We have a situation," the director said without preamble.

Behind him, Donovan Sharpe shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Evelyn's questioning gaze.

Preston thrust a tablet into her hands. The screen displayed a gossip column with a damning headline: Blackwood Heir's Dark Secret Exposed - Is Evelyn Sinclair His Latest Victim?

Evelyn's stomach dropped as she skimmed the article detailing Nathan's alleged involvement in a high-profile corporate scandal years ago—one that had ruined several families. The accompanying photo showed a younger Nathan leaving a courthouse, his expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses.

"This changes everything," Preston said grimly. "The studio's getting cold feet about your project together. Sponsors are pulling out."

Lillian snatched the tablet, her eyes widening. "This has to be Victoria Hayes' doing. That woman's been after Evelyn's roles for years."

Evelyn's hands clenched into fists. The timing was too perfect—right after Nathan had publicly defended her honor. "Where is he now?" she demanded.

Donovan cleared his throat. "Word is he's holed up at the Blackwood estate. No one's seen him since last night."

A notification pinged on Evelyn's phone. Her heart leapt—but it was just Serena Whitmore, her agent: Emergency meeting in 30. Wear something devastating.

Evelyn stared at the message, then at the tablet's damning revelations. The man she'd started falling for had hidden this from her. But as betrayal coiled in her chest, another emotion fought its way to the surface—determination.

"Tell Serena I'll be there in twenty," Evelyn said, already striding toward her closet. "And someone get me Nathan Blackwood's private number. If he thinks he can ghost me after everything, he's got another thing coming."

Lillian exchanged glances with Preston. "What are you planning?"

Evelyn selected a crimson power dress from her rack, the color of warning and war. "I'm going to get answers. And then?" She met their worried gazes with steel in her own. "We're going to destroy whoever did this."

The moment Evelyn Sinclair opened her phone, her heart skipped a beat.

Nathan Blackwood had blocked her.

She stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, as if waiting for some kind of glitch—some mistake that would prove this wasn’t real. But the cold, hard truth stared back at her. No profile picture. No last seen. Just a blank space where his name used to be.

Her chest tightened.

Why?

Had she done something wrong? Said something she shouldn’t have? The last time they spoke, everything had been… fine. Or so she thought.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Fine. What a joke.

She tossed her phone onto the couch, running a hand through her hair. This shouldn’t hurt. She shouldn’t care. But the sting was sharp, undeniable.

Her assistant, Lillian Graves, walked in, holding a stack of scripts. "Evelyn, we need to go over—" She stopped mid-sentence, taking in Evelyn’s expression. "What happened?"

Evelyn exhaled sharply. "Nathan blocked me."

Lillian blinked. "Wait. Nathan Blackwood? The guy who couldn’t take his eyes off you at the gala? The one who sent you flowers last week?"

"That’s the one."

Lillian frowned, setting the scripts down. "That makes no sense."

"Tell me about it." Evelyn picked up her phone again, as if it would magically unblock itself. Nothing.

Then, a thought struck her.

She opened her messages, scrolling through her conversation with Victoria Hayes—Nathan’s secretary and, coincidentally, the woman who had made it clear she despised Evelyn.

Had Victoria done this?

Evelyn’s jaw clenched. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had interfered where they shouldn’t.

But before she could spiral further, her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Her breath hitched as she read the message:

"We need to talk. It’s not what you think."

Her pulse raced.

Because even without a name attached, she knew.

It was him.

And whatever this was… it was far from over.

"Darling, you've got it all wrong," Evelyn Sinclair sighed in exasperation, her voice laced with frustration. "The point was to ruin her face, not your own. What were you thinking?"

The Blackwood family exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. Why was Celeste the one hurting herself when Isabelle was the one who deserved retribution?

But of course, they couldn’t actually condone physical harm—not when Celeste was the innocent one, the one who had fought so hard to reclaim her dignity. She didn’t deserve to stain her hands—or her reputation—with violence.

Nathan and Margaret Blackwood stared at Celeste, their faces drained of color, as if they might collapse from the sheer absurdity of the situation. The day had already been a relentless storm of shocks, and this was the final gust threatening to knock them over.

Isabelle, however, was seething, her crimson eyes locked onto Celeste and Julian with venomous intensity.

Celeste was at her breaking point. No matter how she altered her appearance, Isabelle always found a way to copy her. It was maddening. She had run out of options, out of patience—out of hope.

Seeing the devastation in Celeste’s eyes, Julian’s chest tightened painfully.

"You walked away from everything to start fresh," Julian said, his voice rough with emotion. "So why are you destroying yourself over people who don’t matter? Wasn’t the whole point to heal? What are you doing?"

Well, well. Julian finally speaks sense. Has he finally shaken off that naïve delusion of his?

Ignoring Evelyn’s biting sarcasm, Julian turned to his family with a silent plea. He knew Celeste wouldn’t listen to him—not after he had just opposed her.

Evelyn stepped forward, resting a comforting hand on Celeste’s shoulder. "You’ve done enough. Don’t punish yourself for her sins."

"She’s right, sweetheart," Margaret chimed in gently, while Sophia moved to steady Celeste’s trembling hands. "Theodore told me how stunning you are—that’s something no one can steal from you."

"And from now on, we will tell you apart," Richard declared firmly. "No more confusion. No more games."

Surrounded by their reassurances, Celeste felt a warmth spread through her chest, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

The others, unable to bear her distress any longer, rushed to console her.

"We know the truth now," Sophia said softly. "If anyone dares to twist things again, we’ll investigate. We were blind before, but we see clearly now."

Seizing the moment, Julian swiftly snatched the scissors from Celeste’s grip and hurled them aside.

The sharp clang of metal hitting the floor echoed through the room—a final, decisive end to the madness.

Celeste inhaled sharply, her voice steady despite the storm inside. "Thank you, but I let my emotions get the best of me."

Truthfully, she wasn’t reckless—just wounded. The shock had shattered her composure, but now, clarity returned like ice water. She wouldn’t self-destruct. Not for them.

Her gaze swept over the trio. "It’s settled. We’re done."

"Celeste, wait—" Penelope reached out, desperation threading her tone.

"I meant what I said," Celeste replied, frost lacing every syllable. "I’m no longer your daughter."

"Enough." Edward’s voice cracked like a whip.

Their blind defense of Isabelle made her stomach churn. No matter how she pleaded, they’d never see the truth. They mistook her resolve for a tantrum, oblivious to how years of neglect had eroded her love. This wasn’t impulse—it was emancipation.

"Don’t call. Don’t visit. If you insist on forcing this farce, sue me. I’ll pay whatever the court orders. Not a cent more."

Her words were precise, rehearsed. She’d mapped this exit long ago.

Edward and Penelope paled, finally grasping her sincerity. Their smug certainty crumbled, leaving hollow panic. How could their obedient girl walk away?

She always endured everything! All we asked was for her to help Isabelle—just a little sacrifice. Was cutting ties really necessary?

But Celeste denied them even regret. Turning to the Blackwoods, she bowed. "My apologies for disrupting your evening."

"The event was winding down," Julian interjected swiftly. "No harm done."

Celeste met his gaze, detached. "I’ll be leaving now."

"Let me drive you!" Julian blurted.

A glacial pause. "No."

She strode away, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. This wasn’t an exit—it was a rebirth.

Behind her, Edward and Penelope’s cries twisted between fury and grief. Useless. She didn’t glance back.

When they turned, Isabelle lay in a dramatic heap, unconscious.

Sympathy had long abandoned Evelyn Sinclair.

As the humiliated Edward and Penelope hastily departed with Isabelle in tow, Vincent Holloway scrambled after them like a desperate puppy.

Daphne and her husband offered profuse apologies to the Blackwood family, their faces burning with secondhand embarrassment. "This is entirely Vincent's doing. That boy has brought nothing but disgrace upon our family name."

"Indeed, we're victims in this farce," Margaret Blackwood replied through clenched teeth. "Who would've thought the Holloways would stoop so low?"

"Let's pretend this never happened," Daphne simpered, forcing a smile. "Who knows? Our families might still become connected someday."

The matriarchs exchanged hollow pleasantries, their words dripping with insincerity.

Daphne added awkwardly, "We could never accept a woman like that into our family. Honestly, I can't tell if Vincent genuinely cares for Isabelle or if he's just trying to spite Julian. Your children are far superior, especially... your youngest daughter."

Margaret's expression darkened instantly. Just as she prepared to unleash her wrath, Evelyn's voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Why do you think Vincent pursued Isabelle so relentlessly? It's simple—he's practically sterile." Evelyn popped a grape into her mouth with theatrical nonchalance. "At first, he probably just wanted a rebound. Then he discovered Isabelle could actually bear his child. Suddenly, the playboy wants commitment. Pathetic, really."

Margaret's face twisted with conflicting emotions—the urge to mock Daphne warring with her need to maintain decorum. Behind her, Sophia pretended to cough while Julian snorted derisively.

Nathan, however, remained the picture of composure, though his gaze toward Evelyn held a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. What trashy tabloids had his fiancée been reading?

"To future family alliances," Richard Blackwood said icily, raising his wine glass in a mock toast.

The Holloways could bear no more. They fled with the remaining guests, their tails between their legs.

All eyes kept drifting toward Julian, who sat stiffly in his chair.

"Spit it out already," Julian finally snapped under the weight of their stares.

"Do you have feelings for Celeste?" Margaret asked bluntly.

Julian's head whipped toward Evelyn, his expression caught between embarrassment and frustration.

Richard finally took pity on his son. With a wordless pat on Julian's shoulder, he guided his wife upstairs, leaving the younger generation to their drama.

Noticing Evelyn had her fruit, Nathan stood. "Evelyn, my study. We need to talk."

Soon, only Julian remained at the dining table, nursing his wounded pride.

Just as he considered retreating, Genevieve's voice came through his phone: "What a shame. I always thought Celeste would become my sister-in-law. She's the woman you've known longest, after all."

Julian froze. "Is that... true?" Why didn't he remember any of this?

"Of course! Childhood sweethearts, practically destined. You always preferred her company—even made me play your daughter in childhood games while she got to be your wife. You swore you'd marry her someday."

"You promised to marry Celeste when you grew up," Genevieve said softly, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "You told her you'd build a life together. You even kissed her cheek that day. It was after our grandmothers witnessed that moment they decided to arrange your engagement."

Julian froze.

A bitter laugh escaped him.

So, it was me. I was the reason for our engagement. A childhood promise—one I made to her, swearing we'd have a future together. How could I have forgotten something so important? What kind of man does that make me?

"Julian… are you crying?" Genevieve's voice was laced with surprise.

He wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, his voice rough. "You remember so much. Tell me more about us back then."

"Hmm? Honestly, I don’t recall much. We weren’t even in the same grade." She sighed. "After you started school, you barely spent time with Celeste—or with me. You said boys should only play with boys. Then, one day, your classmates found out about the engagement and teased you mercilessly. You were so embarrassed you lashed out. After that… Celeste stopped coming over. And suddenly, all you cared about was Isabelle."

Julian clenched his jaw. Because I owed her for saving my life.

He remembered the years that followed. His family constantly reminded him to visit the Cowells, given the engagement.

But in truth, it had only been a verbal agreement—no ceremony, no formal commitment. To Julian, it had always felt flimsy, more like an obligation than a real bond. He never saw it as binding, never treated it as something sacred.

So when he fell for Isabelle, he didn’t think twice. He didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t believe he was betraying Celeste. Most of his visits were just to check on the sickly Isabelle.

Yet every time he was there, Edward and Penelope would sing Isabelle’s praises while criticizing Celeste. And Celeste? She just stood there, silent, absorbing every word without protest.

How many times had she been wrongly accused? How many times had he confronted her on Isabelle’s behalf, only for her to remain quiet, never defending herself?

Before he arrived, she had already failed to make her parents see reason. And when she saw how devoted he was to Isabelle, she gave up trying. All she could do was wear that blank, unreadable expression.

Julian wondered—if she had just explained herself, just once, would he have listened? Would he have questioned things, sought the truth, and believed her?

Yes. At least in the beginning, he would have.

But she never did. She let his misunderstandings pile up, let his trust in Isabelle grow unchecked. Until, without realizing it, he had been conditioned to believe every word against her.

He couldn’t blame her for his blindness. He had failed to see her pain, failed to recognize the truth.

And now, he had lost her.

What a fool I’ve been.

A wave of regret crashed over him. I messed up. I should never have let her walk away. The realization hit Julian like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Celeste—not now, not ever.

His fingers trembled as he dialed her number, his pulse racing with each unanswered ring. Why isn’t she picking up? Desperation clawed at him. He should’ve insisted on driving her home earlier. Screw pride. I should’ve fought harder.

When the call went to voicemail, he typed out a message, his thumbs moving frantically across the screen:

"Do you have somewhere safe to stay? Let me know if you need anything. I still owe you for saving my life, and I haven’t repaid that debt yet. Just… tell me you’re okay."

Silence.

He waited, his breath shallow, eyes glued to his phone. Nothing.

Swallowing hard, he tried calling again—only to be met with an automated voice. "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable—"

His stomach dropped.

A cold sweat broke across his skin as he attempted to send another text. This time, a glaring red exclamation mark flashed back at him.

His heart stopped.

She blocked me.

The truth settled like ice in his veins.

Celeste was gone.

And it was entirely his fault.