Chapter 473

Julian's voice was barely above a whisper. "You're not like anyone else."

Evelyn could sense the special affection Julian held for Claire, though Claire likely only viewed him as a younger sibling.

Even though Evelyn was no longer married to Lucas, she still needed Julian. The timing of Claire's pregnancy was delicate. If Lucas paid too much attention, he might uncover the truth.

As night descended, the city center pulsed with neon lights and rhythmic beats.

Evelyn hailed a cab to the auction. The venue was packed with high-profile guests, each dressed in their finest.

Luxury vehicles glided past one after another, yet Evelyn arrived in a simple taxi.

This was an event for the elite—no one would spare a glance for an ordinary cab. But the moment Evelyn stepped out, all eyes snapped toward her.

She was radiant.

Evelyn rarely made public appearances. Most knew her by reputation, few had ever seen her in person.

So when she walked into the gala, poised and striking, whispers erupted like wildfire.

Evelyn stepped out of the car with effortless grace, handing the driver a generous tip before turning toward the dazzling entrance. The neon lights caught the delicate angles of her face, casting an ethereal glow around her.

Several passersby were so mesmerized that they walked straight into the glass doors, only to recover with flushed cheeks and forced laughter, pretending nothing had happened as they exchanged awkward pleasantries.

At the entrance, Evelyn presented her invitation to the security guard, who gave her a respectful nod and stepped aside.

The ballroom was even more breathtaking than she had anticipated. Swathes of silk and crystal adorned the space, transforming it into something out of a fairy tale—like a scene from the most extravagant wedding.

The moment she stepped inside, the hum of conversation reached her ears.

Nearly every whisper was about Dominic Powell.

"Did you hear? Dominic had blood on his hands before he even turned twenty. Can you imagine? A killer at that age?"

"Well, what do you expect from the Powells? Their family has always been ruthless. It’s no surprise they raised a monster."

"Someone like him should’ve rotted in prison. Now that he’s free… I swear, Cresthaven won’t be the same."

"And poor Isabella Morgan—engaged to that devil. What a tragedy."

Evelyn listened, her expression unreadable, as she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Her fingers tightened around the stem as she considered the whispers swirling around her.

The murmurs around her were sharp and unrelenting.

"You think she's tragic? The Morgans made their fortune dirty, working hand-in-hand with the Powells back then. They're just as guilty—no saints here." A voice dripped with disdain.

"Exactly. When the Morgans collapsed, they left behind a mountain of debt. The real victims were their creditors. Years of hard-earned savings—gone in an instant."

Evelyn absorbed every word, piecing together the puzzle in her mind.

The Powells, desperate to cleanse their reputation, had thrown the Morgans under the bus. A scapegoat to bear the weight of their sins.

The Morgans had resisted, of course, but under the Powells' iron grip, they'd had no choice. Overnight, their empire crumbled. Assets seized. Lives destroyed.

Only one thread remained—a fragile engagement, the Powells' hollow promise to Isabella. A leash disguised as protection.

At the reception desk, guests were checking in. Evelyn handed over her invitation.

It bore Claire's name, a favor from her closest friend.

"Ms. Dawson, the auction is to your left. The ballroom is straight ahead." The attendant smiled brightly.

Evelyn's gaze swept across the grand hall.

Two worlds glittered before her—one of calculated bids and whispered deals, the other of swirling gowns and champagne flutes.

The night hummed with possibility.

And danger.

The grand ballroom glittered under crystal chandeliers, but Evelyn Carter found no joy in the spectacle.

She barely registered the swirling couples or the orchestra's waltz. Her gaze kept drifting toward the auction area, where she planned to wait quietly for the main event.

Then she saw it.

The guest list lay open on a velvet podium, two names leaping out like electric shocks:

[Alexander Whitmore]

And directly beneath, in elegant script:

[Isabella Morgan]

Her breath hitched.

The last time those names had appeared together was in a society column announcing their childhood friendship. Before prison. Before everything changed.

The champagne flute trembled in her hand as distant laughter echoed through the marble halls.