Chapter 191

Evelyn couldn't suppress a quiet laugh at Beatrice's stunned expression.

Honestly, Nathaniel had only used that excuse to dismiss Evelyn's adoptive parents, who had shown up unannounced—begging for money.

She hadn't expected him to turn it into a sharp retort against Beatrice, delivered with zero deference.

His gaze flicked to Evelyn the next second, making her breath catch.

It was strange, really. She hadn't even been the one to speak.

Nathaniel's voice was icy. "Why did you transfer a hundred thousand dollars to me?"

Evelyn blinked. "I was repaying your mother. Since I didn’t have her account details, I sent it to you. Could you forward it to her?"

He glanced at Beatrice. "What happened?"

"Nathaniel, Evelyn’s adoptive parents came demanding money. I gave them the hundred thousand just to get rid of them. It’s not a significant amount," Beatrice replied dismissively.

His brows drew together. "You shouldn’t have."

He knew exactly what kind of people Evelyn’s adoptive family were—opportunistic leeches. Give them an inch, and they’d take a mile.

"Nathaniel, I know you think it’s a waste, but consider it a small price to pay for peace," Beatrice reasoned.

His lips thinned. He didn’t say it was a waste. He said it was a mistake. Feeding their greed would only invite more trouble.

Evelyn scoffed. "If that’s all, I’ll be leaving. If they show up again, don’t let them in."

She turned on her heel and walked out without another word.

Outside, the night was thick and still. The upscale neighborhood had no public transport, and taxis were nonexistent.

A sleek black car rolled up beside her moments later. The driver lowered the window. "Mrs. Whitmore, let me take you home."

"No need," she said stiffly.

The driver persisted. "You won’t find a cab here, ma’am. Besides, I need to drop something off for Mr. Whitmore anyway."

Evelyn hesitated, then relented. Pride was one thing, but safety was another.

The silence in the car was heavy. She glanced at the driver. "Thank you."

"Of course."

From the rearview mirror, he watched her exhale in quiet resignation. Relief settled in his chest.

If he’d failed to bring her back, he wouldn’t have known how to face his boss.

At a red light, he quickly typed out a message to Robert. Mrs. Whitmore is in the car.

Robert read the text and hurried upstairs—only to walk into a heated argument between Nathaniel and Beatrice.

Beatrice was fuming. "Nathaniel, you’re divorced. Why won’t you clear out the walk-in closet? What if Victoria moves in and sees all of Evelyn’s things still here?"

Nathaniel’s patience was fraying. "Mother, this engagement is a business arrangement. Nothing more."

"That’s ridiculous. Victoria is perfect—beautiful, well-connected, obedient. She’d make an ideal wife. Forget the pretense. Make it real."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I’m thirty, not three. Stop barging into my room and dictating my life."

Beatrice’s temper flared. "You’re my son! I have every right to check on you!"

"You’ve checked. Now leave." He ushered her out and shut the door firmly behind her.

She huffed, powerless against his stubbornness. "The engagement party is this weekend. Don’t embarrass us. The Sinclairs aren’t people you want to cross."