Chapter 20

Evelyn's grip on her phone turned white-knuckled. "Put him on. Now."

Simon's voice wavered. "Ms. Carter, Mr. Whitmore isn't exactly... coherent right now. Maybe—"

Before he could finish, Alexander, who had been slumped in the backseat, suddenly stirred.

His hand shot out, snatching the phone from Simon with startling precision. "You called for me?"

Simon blinked in disbelief.

Just minutes ago, Alexander had been barely able to stand, his steps unsteady as Simon half-carried him to the car. Now, his gaze was sharp, his voice steady—except for the rough edge of intoxication that clung to his words.

Evelyn's breath hitched.

That voice—low, rough, laced with the lazy confidence of a man who knew exactly what effect he had on her—sent an electric jolt down her spine.

Her skin prickled with awareness.

Even drunk, Alexander Whitmore was dangerously magnetic.

"Evelyn?"

Only when Alexander pronounced her name with deliberate slowness did Evelyn finally snap out of her daze.

She pressed cool fingertips to her flushed cheeks, grounding herself. "Can we meet?"

"Of course," Alexander responded without hesitation, though his words came out slightly slurred, the telltale sign of alcohol loosening his tongue.

"I'll come to the hospital."

"No, don’t rush," Evelyn said, biting her lower lip.

She could practically hear the haze of intoxication in his voice. Serious conversations needed clear heads.

Still, curiosity gnawed at her. What kind of company did he run?

Even in difficult times, a CEO shouldn’t have to personally entertain clients.

Evelyn imagined him as a struggling entrepreneur, forced to swallow his pride for the sake of his business.

Her grip on the phone tightened briefly before she forced herself to relax. "Tomorrow, then. You pick the place."

A beat of silence. Then, she added, "Eleven in the morning?"

The line hummed with quiet anticipation.

The clock struck eleven when Evelyn finally gathered the courage to call. She assumed Alexander would sleep late after last night's drinking, so this hour shouldn't disturb him.

"Eight," Alexander answered, his voice rough as he massaged his temples. The hangover pulsed behind his eyes.

Evelyn blinked. "Eight?"

"Sharp. I'll collect you from the hospital."

He already knew she was being discharged in the morning.

She opened her mouth to protest—he didn’t need to trouble himself—but then remembered their unavoidable meeting. Swallowing her pride, she agreed.

The call ended, leaving Evelyn alone in the sterile hospital room.

Claire had intended to stay, but a last-minute modeling assignment in Milan forced her to catch a red-eye flight. Three years ago, a torn ligament had ended Claire’s ballet career, pushing her into the cutthroat world of fashion. These days, her schedule was relentless.

Not wanting to disrupt Evelyn’s rest, Claire had slipped away at dusk.

Sleep never came that night.

Evelyn stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. The confrontation tomorrow loomed like a storm cloud. Alexander’s cold efficiency on the phone unsettled her. No slurred words, no drunken carelessness—just crisp, sober determination.

She twisted the hospital bracelet around her wrist.

Dawn crept in, pale and uncertain.

By seven, nurses bustled in with discharge papers. Evelyn dressed mechanically, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. Every passing minute tightened the knot in her stomach.

At precisely 7:58, her phone buzzed.

"Outside."

Two syllables. No room for negotiation.

Evelyn took a steadying breath and stepped into the corridor. Whatever awaited her beyond those doors, there was no turning back now.

The automatic doors slid open.

Morning light blinded her momentarily. Then she saw him—Alexander, leaning against a sleek black car, sunglasses shielding his eyes. His crisp white shirt was immaculate, not a trace of last night’s recklessness visible.

"Get in," he said, opening the passenger door. "We have things to discuss."

The engine purred to life.

Evelyn gripped the seatbelt. The real storm was just beginning.

The alarm buzzed at 7:30 AM, pulling Evelyn Carter from sleep.

Her fingers automatically curled around her phone, the screen lighting up with a breaking news notification.

"Caldwell Heir Caught in Midnight Rendezvous—Affair Suspected!"

Evelyn's breath hitched. An Caldwell? That has to be Ethan.

She tapped the alert, and sure enough, Ethan Caldwell's face dominated the screen.

There he was, wrapped around Vanessa Hart, their bodies pressed close as they stumbled out of what looked like a luxury hotel in the dead of night.

Her stomach twisted as she scrolled.

The article detailed how paparazzi had ambushed them at dawn, capturing their exit from the same hotel suite they'd checked into hours earlier.

The implication was undeniable.

Even though Evelyn had known about their complicated history, seeing it splashed across every gossip site still felt like a knife to the ribs.

Her mind spun, a storm of betrayal and disbelief.

The worst part?

Vanessa had the audacity to smile for the cameras.

The photograph showed Ethan desperately shielding Vanessa's face from the flashing cameras.

A bitter laugh escaped Evelyn's lips. There was no denying it now—Vanessa had stolen her fiancé right from under her nose.

Her mind raced to her parents. What would Richard and Margaret think if they saw this?

Would they finally regret choosing Vanessa over her all these years?

The weight of their favoritism pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. The pain was suffocating.

Just then, her bedroom door burst open.

A tall, impeccably dressed man strode in, his expression unreadable.

The air between them crackled with tension.

Evelyn barely had time to react before he spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

"You need to see this."

He tossed a sleek tablet onto the bed beside her.

The screen displayed a breaking news alert—one that would change everything.

Her breath hitched.

This wasn’t just a scandal.

It was war.