Chapter 119

The moment Nathaniel stepped into the dimly lit study, the weight of his grandfather's gaze settled heavily upon him. Edward Martin sat behind the mahogany desk, his gnarled fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes sharp despite his advanced age.

"You're late," Edward remarked, voice gravelly with disapproval.

Nathaniel exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie. "Traffic was worse than expected."

A lie. He'd stalled outside the estate gates for ten minutes, dreading this conversation.

Edward's lips thinned. "Sit."

Nathaniel obeyed, sinking into the leather chair opposite his grandfather. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood filled the air, familiar yet suffocating.

"I've reviewed the quarterly reports," Edward began, sliding a folder across the desk. "Your numbers are acceptable. But acceptable isn't exceptional."

Nathaniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "The market's volatile right now. We're outperforming competitors by—"

"I didn't call you here to listen to excuses." Edward's cane thumped against the floor. "The board expects innovation. Vision. Not complacency."

Nathaniel's jaw tightened. He'd spent sleepless nights restructuring departments, securing new contracts—all while managing the fallout from Isabella's sudden reappearance. But Edward would never acknowledge that.

A knock interrupted them. Winston, Edward's ever-loyal butler, entered with a silver tray bearing two crystal glasses and a decanter of amber liquid.

"Your medication, sir," Winston murmured, setting the tray down.

Edward waved him off impatiently. "Later."

Winston hesitated, casting a concerned glance at Nathaniel before retreating.

Silence stretched between them. Nathaniel studied his grandfather—the deepening wrinkles, the tremor in his left hand. Time was chipping away at the indomitable Edward Martin. The realization should have brought satisfaction. Instead, it left a hollow ache in Nathaniel's chest.

Edward poured two fingers of whiskey, pushing one glass toward Nathaniel. "Your father lacked discipline. Don't repeat his mistakes."

The words landed like a physical blow. Nathaniel's fingers curled around the glass, knuckles whitening. Richard Martin's failures haunted this family like ghosts.

"I'm nothing like him," Nathaniel ground out.

Edward smirked, raising his drink. "Prove it."

The whiskey burned going down, but Nathaniel welcomed the fire. He'd spent his life proving himself—to Edward, to the board, to everyone who doubted a Martin could rebuild their empire.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Evelyn's name flashed across the screen.

We need to talk.

Nathaniel's stomach dropped. She'd been distant since the gala, withdrawing into her work. He'd assumed she needed space after Isabella's dramatic scene. Now, uncertainty gnawed at him.

Edward noticed his distraction. "Problem?"

Nathaniel pocketed the phone. "Nothing I can't handle."

"See that you do." Edward leaned forward, eyes glinting. "The Martins don't tolerate weakness. Not in business. Not in marriage."

Ice slithered down Nathaniel's spine. Did Edward know about Isabella's threats? About the tabloids sniffing around their past?

Before he could respond, Winston reappeared, this time with urgency lining his features. "Sir, Mr. Prescott is on line one. He insists it's urgent."

Edward scowled but reached for the phone. "This isn't over."

Nathaniel stood, grateful for the reprieve. He needed air. Needed to figure out what the hell Evelyn wanted to discuss.

As he strode toward the door, Edward's parting words followed him:

"Remember, boy—legacies aren't inherited. They're earned."

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, but Nathaniel couldn't shake the sensation of chains tightening around his throat.

Outside, twilight painted the gardens in shades of violet and gold. Nathaniel pulled out his phone, staring at Evelyn's message. Three words that could unravel everything.

His thumb hovered over the call button when a sleek black sedan pulled up the driveway. The window rolled down, revealing Isabella's smirking face.

"Going my way, darling?"

Nathaniel's grip on the phone turned lethal. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Isabella's crimson lips curved. "Saving you from yourself."

The passenger door swung open.

"Get in," she purred. "We have so much to discuss."

Wind rustled through the hedges, carrying the scent of impending rain. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

A storm was coming.

And Nathaniel stood directly in its path.

"It's her former lover. She only married me back then to push that man away."

Nathaniel slumped into the leather couch, downing his whiskey in one bitter gulp. The thought gnawed at him, twisting his insides with frustration.

She swore she had moved on. Claimed she never looked back. Then why demand a divorce now?

If it were really about Isabella, why didn’t she care from the start?

Lies. All of it.

His mood darkened further. "Every word out of her mouth is just an excuse to run back to him."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever met this guy?"

"No."

And he never wanted to.

Thomas swirled his drink thoughtfully. "We should look into him. What kind of man could make a woman like Evelyn—gorgeous, brilliant—hold onto him for years?"

Nathaniel shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Thomas held up his hands. "Just saying—women like her don’t pine for just anyone. If she’s still hung up on him, he’s either a saint or a master manipulator. And let’s be honest, stunning women? Terrible taste in men."

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. He drained another glass without reply.

But Thomas’s words stuck like a thorn. Was Evelyn being played?

The silence stretched. Thomas refilled his glass, watching as Nathaniel drank himself into a haze.

By midnight, Nathaniel’s movements had slowed, his speech slurring. Thomas, still sharp, seized the moment.

"Do you actually love Isabella?"

"What does it matter?"

"If not, why keep her around? Guilt? Because she took that hit for you and ended up in a coma?"

"Some things aren’t that simple," Nathaniel muttered.

Thomas leaned in. "Listen. If you want to save your marriage, cut Isabella off—completely. Pay her off, set her up with a career, but let her go. If you’d rather be with her, then stop dragging Evelyn through this. Clean break. Better for everyone."

Nathaniel stared into his glass. Minutes passed before he finally spoke, voice rough.

"Clean breaks don’t exist."

Thomas sighed.

Later, as bouncers hauled Nathaniel into the backseat, Thomas gave the driver an address with a smirk.

"Consider this a favor, old friend."

The car pulled up thirty minutes later—not at the Martin estate, but outside Evelyn’s apartment.

"The Marriage Game" (Evelyn & Nathaniel) – A Novel of Love and Second Chances