Chapter 4

The other man chuckled, swirling his drink. "But Evelyn's absolutely stunning, isn't she? That face, that body—she'd make any man look good. Having her as an arm candy wouldn't be the worst fate."

He smirked at Ethan, tossing a chip onto the poker table. "Ethan, you're seriously just going to hand her over like that?"

Ethan barely glanced up, his voice dripping with indifference. "Take her if you want. She's yours."

The man blinked, unsure if Ethan was joking or dead serious. He let out an awkward laugh.

"Come on, man. Everyone knows Evelyn's been obsessed with you for years. She followed you like a lost puppy. Guess I'm not that lucky."

Outside the door, Evelyn froze, her fingers tightening around the doorknob. A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

It was no secret she loved Ethan. But hearing him casually discard her like last season's fashion? That cut deeper than any knife.

Humiliation burned through her, hot and suffocating. Her vision blurred with unshed tears as her nails dug into her palms.

She remembered being fourteen—fresh from a small town, thrust into the glittering cruelty of Cresthaven.

Her father, Richard Hayes, had enrolled her in the most prestigious academy, hoping for a fresh start.

But Vanessa Hart had other plans.

One winter night, during a vicious snowstorm, they locked Evelyn in an outdoor bathroom stall.

She screamed until her throat was raw, her fingers numb from clawing at the door. No one came.

Then—he did.

Even now, she could see it perfectly: the blizzard howling behind him, his uniform jacket flapping open, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

The dim light hid his expression, but she remembered the way he'd ripped off his scarf and tossed it at her without a word.

"Here. Take it."

Then he was gone, leaving her shivering in the snow.

To fourteen-year-old Evelyn, seventeen-year-old Ethan Caldwell had been a god. Her first savior.

For seven years, she'd loved him. Chased him.

Now? She was just another bargaining chip.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she pulled out her phone and dialed a long-forgotten number.

Before it could connect, a voice cut through the hallway.

"Evelyn? You're back?"

She ended the call and turned.

Her mother, Margaret Hayes, stood there, eyebrows raised. "When did you get out?"

How poetic.

Margaret remembered Vanessa's birthday but forgot her own daughter's release date.

"You look terrible," Margaret said, wrinkling her nose as she eyed Evelyn's gaunt frame. "Prison did you some good, though. Taught you humility. Your father and I have forgiven your... indiscretions. Now hurry—change into something decent. It's your sister's birthday."

Then, as an afterthought: "Oh, right. Your old room is a home theater now. Use Vanessa's. The maid will bring you a dress."

Evelyn was shoved into Vanessa's bedroom. The moment the door closed, the cloying scent of vanilla and roses hit her like a brick.

She barely made it to the ensuite before retching.

Footsteps approached outside. The maid, no doubt, with the obligatory "birthday sister" dress.

Evelyn splashed water on her face, her reflection pale and hollow-eyed in the mirror.

When she emerged, the maid was waiting, gaze flickering to Evelyn's still-heaving stomach.

"I'm not pregnant," Evelyn said flatly. "Tell Vanessa to save the theatrics."

The maid flushed. "I didn't mean—Madam is waiting downstairs. Don't keep her."

Evelyn knew this party wasn't for her. The "happy twins" narrative was just another lie in the Hayes family circus.

Too nauseated to play along, she slipped into the kitchen instead, picking at a fruit platter.

She'd barely taken two bites when the maid reappeared.

"Miss Evelyn! Madam insists you join the guests!"

Evelyn took her time chewing. "I'm not feeling well."

The maid gaped. "But—it would look very bad if you and Ms. Vanessa aren't seen together tonight!"

Evelyn smirked. "Since when have Vanessa and I ever been seen together?"

Before the flustered maid could respond, Evelyn pushed past her—only to freeze at the scene in the grand hall.

Vanessa, resplendent in champagne silk, was raising a glass of wine to her lips—

When a shrill voice cut through the chatter:

"Ms. Vanessa! Don't drink that! It's poisoned!"