Chapter 201

The moment those words were spoken, every assistant in the office turned their attention toward Evelyn.

"Mr. Whitmore seems to have a special preference for the coffee you brew."

"Go on, don't keep him waiting!"

With a resigned sigh, Evelyn carried the coffee into his office, where Alexander sat behind his desk.

His shirt was slightly undone, the top two buttons unfastened.

The fresh… bite marks on his throat stood out vividly against his skin, still flushed red.

Evelyn quickly looked away, her pulse quickening. The sight brought back the memory of last night—the dim lighting, the confined space of the restroom, the heat between them.

She lowered her gaze, her cheeks warming. "Mr. Whitmore, your coffee."

Alexander’s fingers brushed lightly over the marks, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "About last night—"

"I don’t remember anything from last night!" Evelyn blurted out, her voice laced with flustered guilt.

A knowing glint flickered in Alexander's gaze, but he chose not to call her out on the obvious lie.

"Come here."

Evelyn remained silent, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her dress.

"Weren’t you bold enough to barge into the bathroom while I was showering?" His voice was low, teasing. "Why so shy now? Can’t even stand next to me?"

Her nails dug lightly into her palm.

Of all the things to remind her of—last night’s impulsive decision was already mortifying enough. Did he have to bring it up?

Alexander relented, amusement still lacing his tone. "Come look at this."

Finally lifting her gaze, Evelyn’s breath caught at the sight of the cello resting beside his desk.

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

The rich mahogany wood gleamed under the light, its polished curves radiating elegance. She recognized it instantly—the same instrument that had been featured in headlines just weeks ago.

A 20-million-dollar masterpiece, displayed in a prestigious museum.

Rumored to have belonged to a world-renowned cellist whose concerts sold out within minutes, tickets reselling for obscene amounts.

And now, impossibly, it was here. In Alexander’s study.

Such treasures were rare to find.

Yet Alexander had somehow acquired the violinist's most prized possession.

Evelyn approached the instrument with reverence, her fingers tracing its polished curves. "This... is for me?"

Alexander gave a single nod.

The previous evening at Hawthorne Estate, the moment he stepped inside, his eyes had fallen upon the shattered remains of her violin scattered across the floor.

Understanding struck him instantly. Without hesitation, he'd arranged for its replacement.

By dawn, he was already at the airport, personally retrieving the priceless instrument before bringing it straight to her.

Evelyn didn't know the lengths Alexander had gone to—the negotiations, the favors called in—but one glance at the violin told her everything. Convincing the renowned musician to part with it must have been nearly impossible.

Her chest tightened with emotion.

"Would you play something?" Alexander moved aside, giving her space.

Evelyn hesitated. "Now? But we're at work."

He smirked. "The annual gala isn't for days. Everyone in the executive office is loyal to us. No one will mind." His voice softened. "Besides... I've been wanting to hear you play."

The way he looked at her—expectant, almost eager—made resistance impossible.

Evelyn lifted the violin to her shoulder, the weight familiar and comforting.

As the first note resonated through the office, Alexander's expression shifted into something unreadable.

But Evelyn didn't notice.

She was already lost in the music.

Alexander had never witnessed Evelyn play the cello before.

She gave a quiet nod, settling gracefully onto the chair. Her fingers, delicate yet sure, curled around the neck of the instrument as she positioned the bow.

Though Alexander knew nothing of music, the way Evelyn lost herself in the rhythm was mesmerizing. The bow glided effortlessly, pulling forth a rich, melancholic sound that filled the room.

The notes were deep and resonant, weaving a tale of longing and quiet sorrow.

His gaze lingered on her, unwavering, completely entranced by the way the dim light caught the curve of her lashes, the faint press of her lips as she concentrated.

A thought struck him—if she weren’t dressed in her usual sharp blazer, but something softer, something flowing, she would look like a masterpiece brought to life.

He made a silent vow.

He would find her the most exquisite gown, something that would make her shine brighter than any star at the annual gala.

Let the others watch in envy.

Let them see what he already knew.