Chapter 8

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse, casting golden patterns across the marble floors. I stretched beneath the silk sheets, my fingers brushing against the cold space where Nathaniel should have been. Again.

My phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. Gabrielle's name flashed across the screen with three missed calls and a string of urgent texts about the Montgomery project revisions. I groaned, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Another day playing catch-up while my husband disappeared into his corporate empire.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee led me to the kitchen where Alfred stood like a silent sentinel, polishing silverware that already gleamed. "Good morning, Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin left early for the office again." His tone carried the slightest hint of disapproval. "He asked me to remind you about the charity gala tonight."

I nearly choked on my orange juice. "Tonight? He's known about this for weeks and tells me now?" The crystal glass trembled in my hand. Three months of marriage, and Nathaniel still treated me like an afterthought in his meticulously scheduled life.

My phone buzzed again - this time, Charlotte's name appeared. "You'll never guess who just waltzed into my boutique," her message read, followed by a grainy photo that made my blood run cold. Isabella Davis, radiant as ever in a cream Dior suit, examining handbags with that calculated grace I remembered all too well.

The coffee turned to acid in my stomach. Nathaniel's first love, the woman who'd shattered his heart before I'd put it back together, was back in town. And judging by the timestamp, she'd arrived exactly when my husband started working "late" every night.

I was halfway to the shower when the landline rang. Alfred answered with his usual decorum before his expression shifted. "Mrs. Martin? It's Mr. Martin's office. They're asking about the seating chart for tonight."

"Tell Samuel to check the file I emailed last week," I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. None of this was the staff's fault. The steam from the shower couldn't wash away the tension coiling in my shoulders. As the hot water pounded my skin, I made a decision - if Nathaniel wanted to play games, I'd learn the rules.

By noon, I'd approved the Montgomery revisions, rescheduled two client meetings, and called in a favor with Seraphina for a last-minute gown fitting. The emerald green silk whispered against my skin as she pinned the hem, her critical eye missing nothing. "This color makes your eyes look like gemstones," she murmured. "Perfect for making an impression."

The unspoken "on your husband" hung between us. News traveled fast in our circles.

At 7:15 PM, the town car pulled up to the Metropolitan Museum's glittering entrance. I adjusted the diamond teardrop earrings Nathaniel had given me on our wedding day, watching the paparazzi's flashes illuminate the red carpet. No sign of my husband yet.

"Mrs. Martin!" A reporter called as I ascended the steps. "Is it true Isabella Davis is back in New York? Any comment on rumors she's working with Martin Group?"

I smiled my practiced society smile, the one that didn't reach my eyes. "New York always welcomes talented professionals." The lie tasted bitter, but I'd perfected the art of keeping our private life private.

Inside the gilded hall, champagne flutes clinked beneath the crystal chandeliers. I spotted Nathaniel near the auction podium, his broad shoulders straining against his tuxedo as he conferred with Samuel. His dark hair was slightly mussed, the way it got when he'd been running his hands through it in frustration. Some things never changed.

Then I saw her.

Isabella materialized at his side like a phantom, her scarlet nails brushing his forearm as she leaned in to whisper something that made him laugh - really laugh, the deep, unguarded sound I rarely heard anymore. The sight hit me like a physical blow.

My heels clicked against the parquet as I crossed the room. Nathaniel's head snapped up, his gray eyes widening when he saw me. "Evelyn. You're... stunning."

Isabella's smile didn't falter as she turned, her gaze sweeping over me with calculated appraisal. "Darling Evelyn. How lovely to see you again." Her French manicure gleamed as she extended a hand. "Nathaniel was just telling me about your work on the waterfront project. Quite impressive for someone so... new to the industry."

The veiled barb found its mark, but I merely clasped her hand. "Isabella. What a surprise. I didn't realize you were back in the States." My grip tightened just enough to see her blink. "Nathaniel didn't mention it."

His jaw tensed. "It came up rather suddenly. Isabella's consulting on the Singapore acquisition."

"Of course." I sipped my champagne, the bubbles sharp against my tongue. "How convenient."

The orchestra began a waltz, saving us from further conversation. Nathaniel's hand settled at the small of my back, warm through the thin silk. "Dance with me."

On the dance floor, his fingers interlaced with mine. "You're angry," he murmured against my temple.

"Observant as always." I forced my body to relax into the familiar rhythm of our movements. "When were you planning to tell me?"

His sigh ruffled my hair. "It's business, Evelyn. Nothing more."

The music swelled, and I caught Isabella watching us from the edge of the dance floor, her crimson lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her cold blue eyes. "Then why does it feel like a test?"

Nathaniel's arms tightened around me. "It's not."

But as the final notes faded and the applause erupted around us, I couldn't shake the feeling that the real performance was just beginning.

The moment Evelyn spoke those words, Margaret's face darkened instantly. "Sophia, how many times must I remind you? No more sneaking around. You're not some country bumpkin anymore. You're a socialite—a Mitchell, Nathaniel's wife."

Evelyn lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable. She nodded softly. "Understood, Mother."

Margaret's stern features softened slightly. "Then sit down."

Evelyn obeyed, settling gracefully onto the sofa, her posture impeccable. Her striking beauty was undeniable—no matter what she wore, she commanded attention. This, at least, was one thing Margaret could take pride in.

Her voice gentled as she asked, "What brings you home at this hour?"

Evelyn lifted her eyes, meeting Margaret's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I'm divorcing Nathaniel."

The words struck like lightning. Margaret froze. Even Sophia gasped.

Recovering swiftly, Margaret's brow furrowed. "Excuse me? You're divorcing Nathaniel?"

"Yes. The paperwork will be finalized Monday." Evelyn's tone was firm.

"Do you even comprehend what you're saying?" Margaret's voice sharpened. "Your grandfather sacrificed his leg—his life—to secure this marriage for you. And now you're throwing it away?"

This union was no ordinary arrangement. The Martins and Mitchells had been bound by blood and loyalty for generations. Years ago, Charles Mitchell had saved Edward Martin's life in a devastating accident, losing his leg in the process.

Edward, in gratitude, had proposed a marriage alliance. But it wasn't until Nathaniel's generation that both families had suitable heirs.

Originally, the bride was meant to be Sophia—the Mitchells' golden child.

But Charles, already on his deathbed, had insisted on bringing Evelyn back from the countryside to marry Nathaniel. He had even threatened his own son, William, with his dying breath to ensure it happened.

Though Evelyn was Margaret's flesh and blood, Margaret had always longed for a son. After Evelyn's birth, complications left her unable to conceive again. She never forgave Evelyn for that.

Evelyn had been sent away at ten, only returning a year ago for the wedding.

Margaret's fury erupted. She stood abruptly, storming toward Evelyn. "Tell me this is a joke. Say you didn't mean it!"

Evelyn met her gaze steadily. "Nathaniel wants Isabella. I've already signed the papers. This isn't—"

A sharp crack echoed through the room as Margaret's palm struck Evelyn's cheek.

Evelyn's lashes fluttered. Her ears rang. For a moment, the world went silent.

Margaret froze, shocked by her own actions—but she didn't regret it. Pointing to the door, she hissed, "Get out. I have no daughter like you."

Evelyn rose mechanically, walking out like a marionette with cut strings.

As soon as she left, Margaret called William. This divorce wasn't just about two people—it involved two families, their businesses, their legacies. It couldn't be this simple.

Outside Mitchell Manor, Evelyn leaned against her car, struggling to steady her breathing.

Her biggest concern was the child inside her. At least the slap had only grazed her cheek.

Did it hurt? Not really. She felt... nothing.

This wasn't the first time Margaret had been cruel, just the first time she'd struck her. Evelyn was numb to it.

If a slap was the price of freedom, she'd pay it gladly.

Just as she reached for the car door, Sophia's voice cut through the silence. "Evelyn, are you seriously divorcing Nathaniel?"

Evelyn didn't answer. She merely glanced at her sister, cold and detached.

Sophia scowled. "If you didn't want him, why marry him? The Mitchells have been struggling for years. Father relies on the Martins to keep the company afloat. You're being selfish."

"So?" Evelyn's voice was ice.

Internally, she thought, I endured Nathaniel because I loved him. I tolerated Margaret because she birthed me. But no one else gets to judge me.

Sophia blinked. "What?"

"Should I beg him to stay when he's in love with Isabella? Should I debase myself for a man who doesn't want me?" Evelyn countered.

"It's your fault he wants to leave. You failed as a wife," Sophia sneered.

"Our marriage is none of your concern."

"Do you think I care? If not for you, I would be Nathaniel's wife!" Sophia's voice cracked, her eyes glistening. "Why did you come back? Why take what was mine?"

Evelyn's lips curved into a humorless smile. "How bold—lusting after your sister's husband and acting righteous about it. You never fail to amaze me, Sophia."

Sophia's fists clenched. "You—"

"If you love him so much, beg Mother and Father. Arguing with me changes nothing." Evelyn sighed, weary.

Sophia fell silent.

With one last icy look, Evelyn slid into her car and drove off.

Behind her, Sophia stood seething, lips pressed into a thin line. She stomped her foot, frustration and hatred twisting her features.

No one knew how much she loathed Evelyn—her own sister.