Chapter 31

The morning sun cast golden streaks across Evelyn Sinclair's penthouse as she paced the marble floors, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The text from Nathan Blackwood had arrived an hour ago—just three words that sent her pulse racing: We need to talk.

Her assistant, Lillian Graves, hovered near the doorway, concern etching her features. "You've been staring at that message since it came in. What aren't you telling me?"

Evelyn exhaled sharply, her manicured nails tapping against the phone's screen. "It's Nathan. He knows."

"Knows what?" Lillian's eyes widened. "About the contract with Holloway Media? Or—"

"Everything." Evelyn's voice dropped to a whisper. "The non-compete clause, the hidden shares, even the... other arrangement with Vincent Holloway."

A beat of silence. Then Lillian swore under her breath. "How?"

"Victoria Hayes." The name tasted like poison. Nathan's scheming secretary had always been a thorn in Evelyn's side, but this? This was war. "She's been digging through my old files at Blackwood Holdings."

Downstairs, the intercom buzzed. Nathan's driver announcing his arrival.

Evelyn's reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows showed a woman on the edge—flushed cheeks, wild curls escaping her updo, the emerald-green silk dress she'd chosen for battle clinging to her curves. She squared her shoulders. "Cancel my afternoon. And call Preston Whitmore—tell him the documentary deal is on hold."

"Evelyn—"

"No time." She snatched her clutch from the sofa. "If Nathan's here to confront me, I need leverage. Get me everything you can on Sophia Blackwood's pharmaceutical startup. Her husband's offshore accounts, the FDA violations, anything."

Lillian nodded, fingers already flying across her tablet. "And if he's not here to fight?"

Evelyn paused at the elevator, her smile razor-sharp. "Then he's here to negotiate. Either way..." The doors slid open, revealing the mirrored interior where her reflection multiplied into infinity. "...today changes everything."

The moment Evelyn Sinclair stepped into the dimly lit kitchen, her pulse spiked. Something was off. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and steel—Nathan Blackwood’s cologne, and something sharper. Blood?

Her fingers trembled as she yanked open the cutlery drawer. Empty.

Where was it?

The obsidian-handled dagger—her last gift from her late father—was gone.

A shadow shifted in the doorway. Nathan leaned against the frame, his emerald eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Looking for something?" His voice was velvet over gravel.

Evelyn’s nails bit into her palms. "You know exactly what."

He pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between them in three strides. The heat of his body pressed against her back as he reached past her, his breath warm on her neck. "Maybe you misplaced it."

She whirled around, shoving him back. "Don’t play games with me, Blackwood. That blade is mine."

Nathan’s smirk faded. "It’s also the only weapon that can kill a Holloway." His gaze flicked to the fresh scar on her collarbone—courtesy of Vincent Holloway’s last ambush. "You think I’d let you walk into another trap unarmed?"

Evelyn’s laugh was brittle. "So you stole it to protect me? How noble." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Or is this about control?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Before he could retort, Lillian Graves burst in, her tablet clutched to her chest. "We have a problem." She thrust the screen toward them. A security feed showed Vincent lounging in his penthouse—flipping Evelyn’s dagger between his fingers.

Nathan’s phone buzzed. A text from Marcus Donovan: "He’s calling for a trade. Evelyn for the blade."

Evelyn’s blood ran cold. Nathan’s grip on her wrist tightened. "You’re not going."

She wrenched free, snatching her car keys from the counter. "Watch me."

The door slammed behind her. Nathan’s roar of frustration shook the walls.

Somewhere across the city, Vincent Holloway smiled.

Evelyn had always been an observer of drama, never expecting to witness such a spectacle firsthand.

The Celeste she knew was resilient and courageous—a woman who battled her demons alone, striving to break free from every chain to carve out a new life.

Yet, the way others perceived and described her was entirely different.

Recalling the conversation between those two made Evelyn’s stomach churn with disgust.

She replayed the scene in her mind, her thoughts dripping with sarcasm as she mocked the absurdity of what she’d just witnessed. Though no one else could hear her silent derision,

Julian, standing beside her, grew increasingly tense. His glare at Vivienne could have burned holes through steel.

Nothing enraged him more than the thought of someone fantasizing about the woman he loved.

If Vivienne had been a man, Julian would have already thrown a punch.

“A misunderstanding?” the female researcher scoffed, disbelief lacing her tone. “How could Dominic even entertain such thoughts?”

She wasn’t defending Vivienne or questioning Evelyn—just struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“He—he’s lying! I know he is!” Vivienne’s cheeks flushed crimson, her expression a mix of panic and guilt. Somewhere deep down, she still knew right from wrong.

Evelyn feigned shock. “Oh, so you knew all along. That explains it. When you were arguing downstairs, pretending to doubt Celeste while saying you’d ask her later, I thought you genuinely misunderstood her. That’s why I stepped in to clarify.” She smirked, sharp as a blade. “Glad to see you didn’t actually believe him.”

Her words were a deliberate grenade, lobbed without care for the explosion of awkwardness that followed.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes locked on Vivienne in stunned disbelief.

Now, they remembered Vivienne’s earlier attitude toward Celeste, and their expressions darkened.

Compared to Dominic’s fabrications, what left them speechless was Vivienne’s own suspicions.

Vivienne hadn’t expected Evelyn to expose her like this. She stared at Evelyn, shock and venom warring in her gaze, as if Evelyn had personally betrayed her.

Celeste’s face had gone deathly pale. “You actually thought I would ever—”

She was too revolted to finish the sentence.

Vivienne couldn’t meet her eyes. Head bowed, she stammered, “I didn’t! I was just trying to calm him down.”

Celeste let out a sharp, humorless laugh. Words failed her.

A male researcher scoffed, "Just appeasing her? Shouldn't you have shut it down completely? Like how Celeste always shuts you down whenever you come crying about your ex? If you hadn’t dragged her into your messy love life, she wouldn’t even know Dominic existed!"

Another chimed in, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I’ve heard of wishful thinking, but this? Vivienne, does your ex-boyfriend need a reality check? Or do you?"

Vivienne’s eyes welled up, her lower lip trembling like a dam about to break.

"Dominic sounded so sure back then—I just—"

Julian cut her off with a derisive laugh. "Sure? I couldn’t get Celeste to glance my way even after groveling, and you think she’d pine for your washed-up ex? What’s his secret? Delusion in bulk?"

Evelyn nearly choked. Since when had Julian added his own fanfiction to the mix?

Celeste, who’d been seething moments ago, went rigid. The anger drained from her face, replaced by something far worse—panic.

"And you," Julian snarled, advancing on Vivienne, "ever heard the term ungrateful snake?"

How am I supposed to face anyone after this?

Celeste hadn’t even exposed half the truth yet. She’d held back to spare Vivienne’s dignity—proof that kindness did exist in this world. But some people trampled on it like dirt.

Yet the moment Vivienne opened her mouth again, bile rose in Celeste’s throat.

One researcher muttered, "This girl’s a walking red flag. Every fight with her ex, she trauma-dumps on the entire lab and her long-distance friends. Like she’s outsourcing her trash boyfriend’s emotional labor. Then she runs back to him, all lovey-dovey. Being her friend must be karma for war crimes."

Another hissed, "Damn right! She took ages in the bathroom earlier because she was texting some friend about ‘suspecting’ Celeste. Of course, the friend only heard Vivienne’s sob story and called Celeste a ‘homewrecking b*tch.’ Vivienne even replied with that fake-innocent ‘Really? 🥺’ emoji. I need a bleach shower."

The first one gasped. "Wait—the friend said if ‘someone like Celeste’ couldn’t steal Dominic, it proved Vivienne’s charm. And Vivienne sent back the blushing-smug emoji! Oh my god, she believes this crap? What kind of ego—"

"Then the friend said as long as Vivienne doesn’t dump Dominic, she’ll always be the ‘legal wife,’ and other girls are just ‘mistresses.’" A pause. "Mistresses?! They’re calling Celeste—"

A deafening CRACK silenced the room.

Evelyn jerked her head toward the sound. Julian had slammed his fist into the table, his expression murderous. His glare pinned Vivienne, who was mid-whimper, her face sheet-white.

"You—" Julian’s voice was pure venom.

"Julian!" Celeste snapped.

He froze like a Rottweiler yanked by its chain. His jaw worked, but no words came out—just a wounded, frustrated noise.

"She insulted you," he gritted out.

Celeste blinked. That… wasn’t why she’d stopped him.

"You’re causing a scene," she said flatly. "Want to trend on Twitter?"

True enough, half the café was already filming.

Evelyn squeezed Julian’s arm, signaling him to cool it. She didn’t fully get his outburst, but his protectiveness was clear.

Still, she agreed wholeheartedly with the term insult.

Some people didn’t deserve an ounce of respect.