Chapter 496

Evelyn remained silent in response to Alexander's words.

The silence stretched between them like an unspoken chasm. He turned his back to her.

Slipping from the sheets, Evelyn padded barefoot across the cold marble floor to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Moonlight spilled through the glass, painting silver streaks across the darkened bedroom while street lamps cast golden pools on the pavement below.

Her breath fogged the glass as she watched Alexander's tall figure cutting through the garden below, his long strides carrying him toward the garage with urgent purpose.

A hollow ache bloomed in her chest - part confusion, part betrayal.

Where was Alexander rushing off to at this hour? To comfort Isabella after their earlier conversation?

But hadn't he sworn Isabella was just like a sister to him?

Then why did sisters require midnight visits from married men?

Even after the taillights of his Porsche vanished down the winding driveway, Evelyn remained frozen at the window.

The king-size bed felt cavernous when she finally returned to it. Hours ticked by as she stared at the ornate ceiling.

Dawn's first light was staining the horizon when exhaustion finally claimed her.

Her sleep was fitful, plagued by fragmented dreams where she kept searching for a husband who was never there.

The bed was empty.

Alexander's side of the sheets lay perfectly smooth, untouched. He hadn't come home last night.

Evelyn's chest tightened. A dull ache settled in her ribs.

Had he stayed with Isabella the entire night?

What had they been doing?

She exhaled sharply, forcing the thoughts away.

After a moment, she pushed herself up and headed to the bathroom.

Downstairs, Vanessa was already in the dining room, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"Your ex made you pasta last night, and this morning, Uncle Alexander was in the kitchen cooking for you." Vanessa's voice dripped with envy. "Must be nice having two incredible men fawning over you."

Evelyn froze.

Her gaze flicked to the table.

Only then did she notice—her breakfast was different.

The Whitmore family typically ate toast, eggs, and fruit in the mornings.

But in front of Evelyn’s seat sat a steaming bowl of butternut squash soup.

The thermos sat on the marble countertop, its stainless steel surface gleaming under the morning light. When Evelyn twisted it open, fragrant steam curled upward, carrying the comforting aroma of freshly made pumpkin soup.

One of the maids stepped forward, her voice hushed with awe. "Mrs. Whitmore, Mr. Whitmore has been in the kitchen since four this morning. I don't think he slept at all—his hands were shaking when he was chopping the vegetables."

Evelyn's fingers tightened around the thermos. Alexander had done this for her?

"Please don't let it go cold," the maid urged, her eyes shining. "He looked absolutely exhausted, but he refused to let anyone else touch the pot."

The image formed clearly in Evelyn's mind—Alexander standing at the stove in his rumpled dress shirt, his usually impeccable hair disheveled, stirring the soup with bloodshot eyes. The thought made her chest tighten.

Vanessa's sharp laugh cut through the moment. "Seriously, what's your secret? First Ethan falls for you, now Uncle Alexander is playing househusband at dawn? You should write a manual—I'd pay good money for it."

She'd seen Alexander earlier too. The man had looked like death warmed over—pale as moonlight with dark circles that could rival a raccoon's. Yet there he was, sacrificing sleep to cook like some lovesick newlywed.

What kind of witchcraft was this? Since when did Whitmore men behave like this?