Chapter 22
The morning sun cast golden rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Crestwood Manor, illuminating Evelyn Sinclair as she sat at her vanity, carefully applying her signature red lipstick. Today was the day she would finally confront Sebastian Blackwood about the rumors swirling around his engagement to Vanessa Delacroix.
Her phone buzzed—a message from Tristan Gallagher.
“Ms. Sinclair, the car is ready. Mr. Blackwood is already at the Silverpine Valley site.”
Evelyn exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the phone. She had avoided this meeting for weeks, but now, with the media frenzy escalating, she could no longer stay silent.
The drive to Silverpine Valley was tense. The sprawling construction site, a joint venture between Whitmore Holdings and Blackwood Enterprises, was bustling with workers. As Evelyn stepped out of the car, her heels sinking slightly into the gravel, she spotted Sebastian immediately.
He stood near the project blueprints, his tailored suit emphasizing his broad shoulders, his expression unreadable as Maxwell Reeves briefed him. The sight of him still sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest.
Before she could approach, a familiar laugh cut through the noise.
Vanessa Delacroix.
Dressed in an ivory designer dress, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves, she looped her arm through Sebastian’s with practiced ease. The diamond on her finger caught the sunlight, mocking Evelyn with its brilliance.
Evelyn clenched her fists.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the runaway bride.”
Vanessa’s voice dripped with false sweetness as she turned, her smirk widening when she saw Evelyn’s expression.
Sebastian’s gaze snapped to Evelyn, his jaw tightening. “Evelyn.”
She ignored the way her name sounded on his lips. “Sebastian. I see congratulations are in order.”
His eyes darkened. “It’s not what you think.”
Vanessa laughed, tightening her grip on his arm. “Oh, darling, of course it is. The press doesn’t lie.”
Evelyn’s nails dug into her palms. “I didn’t come here for theatrics. I came to discuss the project.”
Sebastian’s gaze never left hers. “Then let’s talk. Alone.”
Vanessa’s smile faltered. “Sebastian—”
“Not now, Vanessa.” His tone left no room for argument.
Evelyn turned on her heel, striding toward the temporary office on-site. She didn’t need to look back to know Sebastian was following—his presence was like a storm at her back.
The moment the door closed behind them, the air crackled with tension.
“Explain,” Evelyn demanded.
Sebastian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “The engagement is a farce. My grandfather arranged it.”
Evelyn scoffed. “And you just agreed?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” His voice lowered, rough with frustration. “Not after what happened between us.”
Her breath hitched.
A knock interrupted them.
Maxwell’s voice came through the door. “Mr. Blackwood, your father is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
Sebastian cursed under his breath. “We’re not done here.”
Evelyn crossed her arms. “Oh, we’re far from done.”
As he left, she sank into a chair, her mind racing.
She had come for answers.
Instead, she’d found a war.
And Evelyn Sinclair never backed down from a fight.
Zachary Blackwood rubbed his temples, murmuring, “Evelyn Sinclair… That name sounds familiar.”
Maxwell Reeves cleared his throat. “I did some digging on Ms. Sinclair, sir.”
Zachary’s eyes brightened. For once, his usually sluggish secretary had taken initiative.
“Go on,” he urged.
Maxwell’s shoulders slumped. “Turns out, I hit a dead end.”
Zachary’s expression darkened. “Maxwell, I think HR would love to process your severance pay early.” His tone was deceptively calm.
“Wait, Mr. Blackwood! It’s not that I didn’t try—it’s like her records are classified. There’s barely a trace of her online. No social media, no public appearances. It’s like she vanished after childhood.”
Maxwell wiped his brow nervously.
“Then how did you find anything at all?” Zachary demanded.
Maxwell pulled out his phone. “This is the only photo I could dig up.”
Zachary’s jaw tightened as he stared at the grainy image. A little girl, no older than five, cradled in Reginald Whitmore’s arms.
“Maxwell Reeves,” Zachary growled, “are you trying to get fired?”
“Sir, this was taken twenty years ago at Mrs. Whitmore’s funeral. It’s the only existing photo of her!”
Zachary exhaled sharply. If the picture was that old, Evelyn would be around twenty-five now—the same age as Vanessa.
His frown deepened as he studied the child’s features. There was something hauntingly familiar about her eyes.
Damn it. Why am I still thinking about my ex-wife? He clenched his fist. Since when did I become this pathetic?
A maid’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Mr. Zachary, your father is asking for you.”
Downstairs, Isabella Montclair was sobbing dramatically in Alistair Blackwood’s arms. Despite her age, she played the fragile damsel flawlessly.
“Alistair… My poor sister,” she whimpered. “She finally found happiness, and now this scandal has ruined everything. She called me last night, saying she couldn’t face me—that she’s brought shame to the Blackwood name!”
Alistair stroked her back soothingly. “Nonsense. We’re family. We’ll handle this together.”
Isabella had mastered this act decades ago—the delicate, helpless woman who needed saving. It was how she’d replaced Zachary’s mother and secured her position as lady of the house.
Zachary approached, his expression unreadable. “You wanted to see me, Father?”
“Zachary, you have to help Vanessa and her family!” Isabella sniffled into her handkerchief. “Frederick’s health is failing, and Vanessa hasn’t eaten in days. If you care for her at all, you’ll fix this!”
