Chapter 445

The moment Evelyn and Alexander stepped out of the physician's office, his phone buzzed urgently.

This time, it was Harold. His voice was sharp, demanding. "Did you break Ethan's ribs? Where are you? Get here immediately!"

He rarely spoke to Alexander with such severity. Evelyn's pulse quickened, her worried gaze flickering toward him.

If this wasn't handled flawlessly, Alexander could be branded as heartless toward his own kin.

He ended the call and turned to her. "Let me take you home first."

"No." Evelyn tightened her grip on his arm. "I'm staying with you."

Her voice softened but held resolve. "We're partners. Whatever trouble comes, we face it together. Don't shut me out."

After a brief hesitation, he nodded.

Before they even reached the hospital room, Eleanor's sobs echoed down the hallway.

She had always been composed. This raw, unchecked grief was unlike her.

"His surgery was just yesterday. He was supposed to recover. But now—three ribs shattered—" Her voice cracked.

The weight of the situation pressed down on them both.

The moment Alexander departed yesterday, the medical team fought desperately to stabilize Ethan.

His injuries were severe, life-threatening.

Dawn broke. Ethan remained unconscious, his body connected to countless machines in the ICU. The prognosis was uncertain.

When Alexander entered the hospital room, Eleanor charged at him like a storm.

"How could you do this to Ethan? Even if you deny him as family, he's still a human being!" Her voice shook with fury. "He nearly died saving Evelyn, and this is how you repay him? What kind of monster are you?"

The accusations poured out like acid. Harold's expression darkened instantly.

This level of public confrontation was unprecedented in their family.

Vincent sneered, "Just like his mother—utterly heartless."

Alexander's gaze snapped to Vincent, sharp as a blade.

Vincent immediately regretted his words, but with Ethan's life hanging by a thread, his usual restraint had shattered.

Alexander appeared unaffected.

With glacial calm, he guided Evelyn to the sofa, handed her a paper cup of water, then turned his full attention to Vincent.

The air thickened with tension.

Evelyn's fingers trembled around the cup. She could feel the storm brewing beneath Alexander's controlled exterior.

Vincent swallowed hard but held his ground.

Harold stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "Enough. This isn't the time for accusations."

Alexander's lips curved into a humorless smile. His next words would change everything.

"Alexander!" Harold's voice cut through the tension, his brows furrowing deeply. "How can you speak of your own mother that way?"

"Am I wrong?" Alexander's voice was icy, his jaw clenched. "Isn't that exactly what you believed? That's why you shipped me off to the countryside and pretended I didn’t exist."

The mention of his childhood made Harold stiffen.

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of years had suddenly crashed down on him. Seated in his wheelchair, he opened his mouth—then closed it again, silent. Painful memories flickered behind his eyes.

Beside him, Evelyn studied them both carefully.

She knew Harold had been married three times, the first two ending in swift divorces. But Alexander’s mother—she had died mere days after giving birth.

A postpartum hemorrhage.

The rumors had always been vicious. People whispered that Harold resented the child whose birth had taken his wife’s life, that he couldn’t bear to look at Alexander, so he exiled him from the Whitmore family.

Yet something about it didn’t sit right with Evelyn.

There was more to this story.

She could feel it.