Chapter 9

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a golden glow across the bedroom. Evelyn stirred, her fingers brushing against the cool silk sheets where Nathaniel should have been. Empty. Again.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 7:03 AM. Too early for him to be at the office already. A faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, teasing her with his absence.

Downstairs, Alfred was setting the breakfast table with his usual precision. "Good morning, Mrs. Martin," he greeted, pouring her a cup of steaming Earl Grey. "Mr. Martin left a note for you."

Evelyn took the crisp envelope, her name elegantly scrawled across it in Nathaniel's handwriting. Inside, a single line: "Emergency meeting. Will explain tonight. Love you."

Her stomach twisted. Emergency could mean anything—another crisis at Martin Group, or worse, her. Isabella. The woman who had haunted their marriage like a ghost.

The toast turned to ash in her mouth. She pushed the plate away just as her phone buzzed. A message from Gregory: "Meeting at 9. Client wants changes to the blueprints. Again."

Evelyn groaned. The Kensington project was bleeding them dry with endless revisions. She typed back: "On my way."

The drive to the office was a blur of honking cars and her own spiraling thoughts. Was Nathaniel lying? Had Isabella resurfaced? The last time she'd asked, he'd shut down, his jaw clenched in that infuriating way that meant drop it.

Gabrielle was waiting at her desk, a stack of files in her arms. "Mr. Wilson is already in the conference room. He looks... stressed."

Evelyn didn't doubt it. Gregory had been on edge since Danielle's relapse. She grabbed her tablet and hurried down the hall, where Gregory was pacing like a caged animal.

"They want to scrap the atrium," he said without preamble. "Says it's 'too modern' for the neighborhood."

Evelyn's grip tightened on her stylus. "It's the centerpiece of the entire design."

"I know. But Jonathan Blake is insisting. Summit Realty won't budge."

Sebastian Wilson's right-hand man. Of course. The man had hated their vision from day one. Evelyn exhaled sharply. "Fine. Let's see what we can salvage."

Three hours and four espresso shots later, they'd managed a compromise that didn't make her want to scream. She was reviewing the revisions when her phone lit up with a call from an unknown number.

"Evelyn Mitchell?" A woman's voice, smooth as velvet.

Her blood ran cold. "Who is this?"

A pause. Then, laughter like shattered glass. "Oh, you really don't recognize me? After everything Nathaniel's told you?"

The world tilted. Isabella.

"I have nothing to say to you," Evelyn hissed, fingers digging into the edge of her desk.

"Pity. Because I have so much to say to you." The line clicked dead.

Evelyn stared at the screen, her reflection pale in the black mirror.

Nathaniel's "emergency meeting" suddenly made perfect sense.

And it had nothing to do with Martin Group.

Evelyn hadn't eaten properly all day. By the time she returned to Pineview Villa, she requested the kitchen to prepare her favorite—creamy carbonara.

The rich aroma of the dish usually made her mouth water, but tonight, the moment the scent hit her, a wave of nausea crashed over her. Her stomach twisted violently.

Must be from skipping meals, she told herself. But as she lifted her fork, the nausea surged uncontrollably.

She barely made it to the bathroom before retching violently, her body trembling from the force of it. The sensation was unbearable, as if her insides were being wrung out.

When she finally straightened, wiping her mouth, she froze.

Nathaniel stood in the doorway, his piercing gaze locked onto her.

Her pulse spiked. "When did you get back?"

She hadn’t heard him enter.

His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was sharp. "What’s wrong with you?"

Evelyn forced a casual shrug. "Nothing serious."

"Nothing?" His frown deepened.

She managed a weak smile. "What else would it be?"

Her fingers twitched slightly, a nervous tell she quickly stilled.

Nathaniel noticed. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her as if peeling back layers of deception. After a weighted silence, he finally spoke.

"Evelyn. You’re not pregnant, are you?"

Not "Are you pregnant?" but "You’re not, are you?"

The distinction cut deeper than the question itself.

Her heart clenched painfully, as if squeezed by an invisible fist. He didn’t even consider the possibility.

Meeting his gaze, she countered softly, "And if I were? Would you let me keep it?"

"You couldn’t possibly be pregnant." His voice was steel, leaving no room for doubt.

The words stung. He never even imagined a future with me like that.

She swallowed the hurt, forcing a light laugh. "Then why ask? You’ve always been careful. Unless you’ve forgotten?"

Except for that one drunken night—buried in silence, never to be acknowledged.

Her expression stayed smooth, flawless.

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened at her mocking tone. Something flickered in his eyes—something sharp, unsettling.

After a tense pause, he finally said, "If you’re sick, see a doctor. Should I have Samuel arrange it?"

She shook her head. "I’ll handle it myself."

His voice turned colder. "Your health isn’t something to neglect. Or do you need me to take you?"

Her laugh was brittle. "Nathaniel, we’re divorcing. Do you really think I should keep depending on you? Or would Isabella approve?"

Silence.

His face hardened, the warmth in his eyes vanishing entirely.

See? she told herself bitterly. You mean nothing. Only Isabella matters.

The quiet stretched until he finally broke it. "Did you tell your family about the divorce?"