Chapter 299

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Evelyn's office, casting golden patterns across her drafting table. She tapped her pencil absently against the blueprint, her mind elsewhere. The soft hum of the city outside barely registered as she replayed last night's conversation with Nathaniel for the hundredth time.

A sharp knock startled her. "Evelyn?" Gabrielle poked her head in, holding a steaming mug. "Thought you could use this. You've been staring at that same page for forty minutes."

Evelyn accepted the coffee with a grateful smile. The rich aroma of espresso momentarily cleared her thoughts. "Thanks. Just... working through some design complications."

Gabrielle arched an eyebrow but wisely didn't press. "Gregory wants to see you in Conference Room B. Something about the waterfront project."

Evelyn's stomach tightened. The Martin Group's latest development—Nathaniel's pet project. She'd deliberately avoided working on it since... everything happened. "Tell him I'll be there in five."

As Gabrielle left, Evelyn's phone buzzed. A text from Nathaniel: We need to talk. Dinner tonight?

Her fingers hovered over the screen. Three weeks of polite distance since Isabella's bombshell revelation about the pregnancy. Three weeks of sleepless nights analyzing every interaction, every glance, every unspoken word between them.

She typed Okay, then deleted it. Started again: I have late meetings. Deleted that too. Finally settled on: Where?

His reply came instantly: Our place. 8pm.

Our place. The penthouse they'd bought together last spring, with its panoramic views of the city skyline. Where they'd hosted dinner parties and spent lazy Sunday mornings tangled in silk sheets. Where she'd found Isabella's earring on the guest room pillow that fateful morning.

Evelyn swallowed hard and pocketed her phone. Whatever Nathaniel wanted to discuss, it would change everything. Again.

Down the hall, muffled voices spilled from Conference Room B. Gregory stood at the head of the table, gesturing animatedly at renderings spread across the surface. He broke off when Evelyn entered. "There you are. We've hit a snag with the zoning permits."

Evelyn forced herself to focus as Gregory explained the issue. But her attention snagged on the project name emblazoned across the documents: Martin Harborfront Development. Nathaniel's signature bold font. Her chest constricted.

"...which means we'll need to completely redesign the west wing," Gregory was saying. "Evelyn? Are you listening?"

She blinked. "Sorry. Jet lag." A weak excuse—she hadn't traveled anywhere. "Let me take another look at the schematics."

As she bent over the plans, the conference room door swung open. Evelyn glanced up—and froze.

Nathaniel stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. "Am I interrupting?"

The air left Evelyn's lungs. He wasn't supposed to be here. Their dinner confrontation wasn't supposed to happen now, in front of colleagues, with her unprepared.

Gregory recovered first. "Mr. Martin! We were just discussing the zoning issues."

Nathaniel stepped inside, his presence filling the room. "I'm aware. That's why I'm here." His gaze never left Evelyn's face. "I thought we could solve this together."

Evelyn's fingers curled around the edge of the table. Together. The word hung between them, loaded with unspoken meaning. Did he still consider them a team? After everything?

The other architects shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension. Gregory cleared his throat. "Well, uh, Evelyn's our lead on this. If you two want to... collaborate..."

"Perfect." Nathaniel moved to stand beside Evelyn, close enough that she caught his familiar scent—sandalwood and something uniquely him. "Shall we begin?"

Evelyn's pulse hammered in her throat. This wasn't just about zoning permits. This was a test. A reckoning. The first real conversation they'd have since their world imploded.

She inhaled sharply and reached for her pencil. "Let's begin."

Nathaniel's piercing gaze locked onto Evelyn as he asked softly, "You truly didn't realize?"

Evelyn exhaled sharply. "Perhaps I misread the situation."

Especially after her tense exchange with Gregory, doubt had crept into her mind.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his voice deceptively gentle. "Evelyn, deep down, you know the truth. The Mitchell Group has been clinging to outdated practices, relying too heavily on external support. Without innovation, collapse was inevitable. Their strategy was never sustainable. So tell me—was your judgment flawed, or was it accurate?"

Evelyn's breath hitched, her lashes fluttering. He had voiced the very thoughts plaguing her.

She fell silent. Nathaniel tilted his head. "Should I escort you to Mitchell Manor?"

"No," she said firmly.

William and Margaret wouldn’t welcome her presence now. She’d only worsen their turmoil.

By dawn, the Mitchell scandal dominated every major financial forum.

Mitchell Manor remained illuminated through the night, its occupants sleepless.

William sat chain-smoking in the parlor, while Margaret alternated between sobbing and pacing. "William, why don’t we beg Edward Martin for help?"

He crushed his cigarette, his voice hollow. "It’s pointless. The debts are insurmountable. The company’s structure is rotten..."

Margaret’s tears fell harder. "You keep saying that! How do you know unless we try? This is Evelyn’s doing! She failed us!"

"Enough!" William snapped, shoving past her. The front door slammed behind him.

Only Margaret and Sophia remained in the hollow silence.

Sophia had tried every avenue—calling Martin Manor, only for Winston to dismiss her, claiming Edward was indisposed.

She’d considered reaching out to Nathaniel directly but knew he’d never entertain her pleas.

Helplessness gnawed at her. Worse, her so-called friends vanished overnight, several blocking her outright.

A bitter realization struck: their loyalty had always been to the Mitchell name and its ties to the Martins.

Sophia stayed by Margaret’s side as the hours crawled by.

At sunrise, fresh chaos erupted.

Before the Mitchell Group’s layoff protests could settle, red paint splattered across the company’s entrance and Mitchell Manor’s gates, accompanied by a vicious slogan:

[Fraudulent Empire! Restore Our Livelihoods!]

The media pounced, dragging the family back into the spotlight.

William, who’d spent the night at his office, emerged haggard and bloodshot. Employees mobbed him, screaming for unpaid wages. Only his secretary, Victor Mills, managed to shield him long enough to reach the parking lot.

Inside the car, Victor delivered the sole shred of good news. "Sir, the two employees who jumped survived. Multiple fractures, but they’ll recover."

William rubbed his temples. "Compensate their families. We need to salvage the company’s reputation."

Victor hesitated. "They’re demanding three million each."

William’s head jerked up. "Six million total?"

The amount was impossible.

"The company’s reserves?" William rasped.

Victor’s voice dropped. "Barely three hundred thousand, sir."