Chapter 31
The silence was shattered by Alexander's rich baritone. "Evelyn, are you awake?"
She hesitated for just a moment, steadying herself before moving to open the door.
When she did, she found herself face-to-face with the striking man standing in the hallway.
Alexander was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored black trousers, the silk bowtie at his throat lending him an air of sophistication that made her breath catch.
He looked like he had walked straight off the cover of a high-end fashion magazine.
Their eyes met, and Alexander swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on Evelyn's crimson-stained lips. "Breakfast is ready," he murmured.
Evelyn quickly averted her eyes, her thoughts racing. He seems completely unaffected.
Does that mean he doesn’t remember… last night?
Then again, how many people actually recall their drunken mistakes?
The tension between them was thick, unspoken words hanging in the air like an invisible barrier.
She followed him down the hall, her pulse quickening with every step.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the grand dining room, but Evelyn barely registered it.
Her mind was still replaying the memory of his lips on hers—soft, insistent, intoxicating.
Had it really meant nothing to him?
Alexander pulled out a chair for her, his movements smooth and practiced.
She sat, careful to keep her expression neutral.
He took the seat across from her, his piercing gaze never leaving her face.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions.
Evelyn picked up her fork, forcing herself to focus on the food rather than the man watching her with unnerving intensity.
But the moment she took a bite, she realized—
She wasn’t hungry at all.
A quiet sense of comfort settled over Evelyn as she trailed behind Alexander into the dining room.
The breakfast spread before them was modest—just a plate of pasta with scrambled eggs—yet the effortless grace with which he ate made it feel like something far more refined.
There’s no staff here, she realized. He must have cooked this himself.
A flicker of guilt pricked at her.
Here she was, sleeping under his roof, waking up later than him, and now he was serving her breakfast. It felt… presumptuous.
"Um…" Evelyn hesitated, lifting her gaze to meet his. "From now on, I'll handle breakfast."
At her words, Alexander set down his fork as if he’d been expecting this exact moment.
"That’s not how things work in our home."
Our home.
Her breath caught.
Those two words sent warmth curling through her chest, soft and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through morning mist.
The thought flickered through her mind like a candle in the wind—Could this truly become my home?
"Eat," Alexander commanded, sliding the plate of rosemary-glazed meatballs toward her. His gesture was effortless, yet carried an undercurrent of authority. "You're practically disappearing before my eyes."
Evelyn pressed her lips together and nodded, still reeling from the surreal turn of events.
At 5'6", her frame was alarmingly slight—barely tipping the scales at a hundred pounds.
When the meal ended, she automatically reached to gather the dishes, but Alexander's fingers closed around her wrist, warm and firm.
"Leave it." His voice was low, amused. "The staff handles that."
"Then what should I do?"
His thumb brushed her protruding wristbone. "Survive long enough to outgrow these birdlike proportions."
Then it hit her—a realization sharp enough to make her breath catch.
"Wait." She swallowed. "I don't even know your full name."
Alexander stilled. His hands, which had been fastening the final button of his charcoal overcoat, paused mid-motion. Slowly, he turned to face her fully.
Their eyes met, his strong fingers encircling her wrist with an intensity that suggested he might pull her into his arms.
Before Evelyn could react, their hands had somehow become intertwined, his touch sending waves of warmth through her.
Startled, she looked up—only to find a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Alexander Whitmore. Your husband."
The words hit her like a lightning strike.
Whitmore? The same surname as Ethan.
The name felt familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Just as she was scrambling to connect the dots, Alexander leaned in, his breath brushing against her skin, sending an unexpected thrill down her spine.
"You don’t have to be so tense around me." His voice was low, teasing. "After all, we did kiss last night. Or have you forgotten already, Mrs. Whitmore?"
Evelyn stiffened as if electrified.
Her fingers tightened instinctively.
Wait… Does he actually remember what happened?
How could he act so nonchalant about this?
What an utterly perplexing man!
Evelyn's mind was still reeling as they drove toward City Hall.
Only when the crisp marriage certificate rested in her palms did reality finally sink in.
After what felt like an eternity, it hit her—she was now, legally, Mrs. Whitmore.
Yet, in the most bizarre twist, the groom wasn’t the Ethan Caldwell she had once envisioned, but a man she barely knew, bound to her only by a shared surname.
Alexander’s piercing gaze locked onto her, his eyes dark with unspoken intensity. "You're thinking about someone else."
His voice was low, edged with something dangerous.
Evelyn’s breath caught.
She hadn’t realized her distraction was so obvious.
But how could she explain?
That the name "Whitmore" now tied to hers should have belonged to another man entirely?
That the life she had imagined had been stolen, rewritten, and handed back to her in a way she never saw coming?
Alexander’s fingers brushed against hers, sending an unexpected jolt through her.
"You’re mine now," he murmured, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Evelyn swallowed hard.
She had signed the papers.
There was no going back.
And yet—
Why did it feel like she had just stepped into a game where she didn’t know the rules?