Chapter 239

The morning sun cast golden rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Evelyn's office, illuminating the blueprints spread across her desk. Her fingers traced the intricate lines of the design, her mind racing with possibilities. The Martin Group project was her biggest challenge yet, and she was determined to prove herself—not just as Nathaniel's wife, but as a talented architect in her own right.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Evelyn?" Gabrielle, her assistant, peeked in. "Mr. Wilson is here to see you."

Evelyn straightened, smoothing her blouse. "Send him in."

Gregory Wilson strode in, his usual confident demeanor slightly frayed at the edges. "We have a problem."

Her stomach tightened. "What is it?"

"The Summit Realty deal. Sebastian Wilson just pulled out."

Evelyn's breath caught. That contract was crucial—not just for her firm, but for her reputation. "Why?"

Gregory exhaled sharply. "He claims our proposal lacks 'innovation.' But between us? I think he’s still bitter about losing the last bid to Nathaniel."

Evelyn clenched her jaw. This wasn’t just business—it was personal. Sebastian had been a rival long before she married Nathaniel, and his pride had taken a hit when Martin Group secured the waterfront project over Summit Realty.

"I’ll handle it," she said firmly.

Gregory raised a brow. "How?"

A slow smile curved her lips. "By giving him exactly what he wants—a design he can’t refuse."

Nathaniel glanced up from his desk as Samuel Yates entered, holding a tablet. "Sir, you have a meeting with the board in twenty minutes."

"Cancel it."

Samuel blinked. "But—"

"I need to see my wife."

There was an edge to Nathaniel’s voice that brooked no argument. Samuel nodded and retreated, but not before catching the dark flicker in his boss’s eyes. Something was wrong.

Nathaniel’s phone buzzed—a message from an unknown number.

"You should keep a closer eye on your wife. Summit Realty isn’t the only one watching her."

His grip on the phone turned deadly.

Isabella Davis adjusted her sunglasses as she stepped out of the sleek black car, her heels clicking against the pavement. The café was quiet, just as she preferred.

Vanessa, her agent, followed closely. "Are you sure about this?"

Isabella smirked. "Absolutely."

She spotted her contact already seated—a man with sharp features and a calculating gaze. Donovan Sinclair.

He leaned back, swirling his whiskey. "You’re late."

"Fashionably," she corrected, sliding into the seat opposite him. "Do you have what I asked for?"

Donovan slid a folder across the table. "Everything you need to ruin her."

Isabella opened it, her smile widening as she scanned the contents.

Evelyn Mitchell wouldn’t know what hit her.

"Mr. Martin, your wife just drove off without saying a word."

Nathaniel's expression darkened instantly. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, his voice sharp with urgency. "Evelyn left Thomas's place. Have someone follow her immediately," he commanded before ending the call.

Thomas, who had been standing nearby, frowned. "Any updates?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

"I don't know yet, but Evelyn left in a hurry. Something must have happened," Nathaniel replied, his jaw tight. A bitter realization settled in his chest—Evelyn didn’t trust him. The thought twisted his lips into a humorless smile.

The rain had stopped overnight in Mayby, leaving the November morning crisp and fresh. Despite winter’s approach, the air was surprisingly mild.

By noon, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz pulled up in front of Scarlett restaurant.

Evelyn stepped out, her stride confident as she entered the establishment.

"Excuse me," she said to the hostess, her voice polite but firm. "Is Ms. Fairchild here?"

The hostess nodded. "Yes, she arrived earlier."

"Perfect. I have an appointment with her," Evelyn lied smoothly.

"She's in the main dining area with two companions," the hostess informed her.

With a curt nod of thanks, Evelyn made her way inside.

She had left Thomas’s villa early that morning, determined to get answers. After a brief detour to the company, she had finally tracked down Penelope. Now, she wasn’t wasting another second.

The restaurant was still quiet, the lunch crowd yet to arrive.

In the center of the lobby, Evelyn’s gaze locked onto Penelope, who recognized her immediately.

Penelope stood, a practiced smile forming on her lips. She knew exactly who Evelyn was—Nathaniel Martin’s wife.

But before Penelope could utter a greeting, Evelyn seized her collar, yanking her forward with a sharp tug.

"Penelope," Evelyn hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You’d better pray Charlotte is unharmed, or this will be the last meal you ever eat."

Penelope’s friends gasped, their eyes widening in shock.

"What the hell? Let her go!" one of them demanded.

Evelyn ignored them, her icy glare fixed solely on Penelope.

To her credit, Penelope didn’t flinch. She had been raised in wealth and power—she knew how to keep her composure.

"Are you Charlotte Bennett’s friend?" she asked calmly.

"That’s none of your business," Evelyn snapped. "Tell me what you said to her."

Her grip tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of Penelope’s blouse.

Penelope’s expression remained unreadable. "Did Ms. Bennett run to you and Thomas, crying about how I embarrassed her? But let’s be honest—her behavior was questionable. Shouldn’t she take responsibility for that?"

Evelyn’s eyes flashed with fury. Without thinking, she tightened her hold, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"Tell me what you said to her, or I swear, you’ll regret it. And what exactly was ‘questionable’? Thomas is the one obsessed with their past. If Charlotte wanted him, you wouldn’t stand a chance."

Penelope’s smile turned condescending. "Ms. Mitchell, we’re supposed to be on the same side. Why are you defending a woman who broke up a marriage?"