Chapter 26
The morning sun cast golden streaks across the marble floors of Crestwood Manor as Evelyn Sinclair paced the length of her gilded prison. Three days had passed since her forced return to the Whitmore estate, and every hour felt like an eternity. The grand halls, once filled with laughter, now echoed with the oppressive silence of her father’s command.
A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Sinclair,” Tristan Gallagher, her ever-loyal secretary, stepped inside, his expression grim. “Your father requests your presence in his study.”
Evelyn’s fingers tightened around the edge of her silk robe. “Tell him I’m indisposed.”
Tristan hesitated. “He insisted. And… Mr. Blackwood is with him.”
Her breath hitched. Sebastian.
Reginald Whitmore’s study smelled of aged whiskey and power. The moment Evelyn entered, her father’s cold gaze pinned her in place. Sebastian Blackwood stood by the window, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the morning light, his presence as commanding as ever.
“Finally decided to grace us with your presence?” Reginald’s voice dripped with disdain.
Evelyn lifted her chin. “You didn’t leave me much choice.”
Sebastian turned, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.
Reginald ignored the exchange. “The engagement announcement is set for next week. The press will be there. You will attend.”
Evelyn’s nails dug into her palms. “I won’t—”
“You will,” Sebastian cut in, his voice low but firm. “Unless you’d prefer your little rebellion to cost your brothers their positions at Whitmore Holdings.”
Her stomach twisted. Blackmail. Of course.
Vanessa Delacroix’s laughter floated through the open terrace doors as Evelyn stormed out of the study. The woman lounged on a chaise, her designer dress shimmering in the sunlight, a picture of effortless elegance.
“Trouble in paradise?” Vanessa purred, swirling her champagne.
Evelyn didn’t stop. “Enjoy your victory while it lasts.”
Vanessa’s smirk faltered. “You think you can still win him back?”
Evelyn paused at the door, her voice icy. “I don’t fight for what was never mine to begin with.”
That night, Evelyn stood on the balcony, the city lights blurring through unshed tears. A familiar scent—sandalwood and spice—wrapped around her.
Sebastian.
“You always did hate losing,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
She didn’t turn. “And you always did love playing games.”
His hand brushed her waist, sending shivers down her spine. “Then play with me, Evelyn. One last time.”
The challenge hung between them, heavy with promise and peril.
Because in their world, even surrender was a calculated move.
“Mr. Blackwood… I—I can’t go on!” Nathaniel gasped, his chest heaving.
The towering hotel loomed before them, its forty floors a brutal challenge. By the time they reached the 38th floor, Nathaniel’s legs trembled violently. He slumped against the railing, sweat dripping down his forehead. His breath came in ragged bursts.
Sebastian barely glanced back, his voice cool and detached. “Pull yourself together. Two more floors. Move.”
At thirty-two, Sebastian was only three years older than Nathaniel, but his military background set them worlds apart. A former Peacekeeping Forces operative, he had spent years pushing his body to its limits. Even after retiring, he maintained a grueling regimen—boxing at dawn, weight training at dusk. His endurance was unmatched.
Forty floors? Child’s play. He could climb twice that without breaking a sweat.
When they finally reached the top, Nathaniel collapsed onto the steps, gulping air. Sebastian shook his head in silent disapproval.
A polished voice cut through the tension. “Mr. Blackwood, a pleasure.”
Sebastian turned. A man in a tailored suit approached, his smile practiced, his gaze sharp. Impossible to place his age—mid-thirties? Forties?
“I’m Oliver Kensington, Ms. Sinclair’s personal assistant,” the man continued smoothly. “She’s been expecting you. Follow me.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. Was that a dig at their pace? His fingers curled into fists.
“Walking will never outpace an elevator,” he replied, voice edged with steel. “I trust Ms. Sinclair won’t hold that against us.”
Oliver didn’t react. He simply turned on his heel and strode ahead, his silence more insulting than words.
Nathaniel bristled. “Who does he think he—”
“Stay here,” Sebastian ordered.
Taking a steadying breath, he followed Oliver down the hall. Despite attending high-stakes negotiations and facing down armed opponents, his pulse spiked as they neared the office.
A crisp female voice called from within. “Enter.”
Oliver opened the door, gesturing Sebastian inside.
Swallowing hard, Sebastian straightened his tie and stepped in.
Evelyn Sinclair observed from the adjacent room, sipping her chocolate, her gaze sharp.
At the desk sat a woman—young, impeccably dressed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.
This was the woman who had been making his life hell? She looked nothing like the ruthless executive he’d envisioned. No hardened edges, no icy demeanor. Just… youth.
“Mr. Blackwood, you must be exhausted. Please, sit.” Evelyn’s voice echoed through the earpiece, her puppet—Giselle—repeating the words. But Giselle fidgeted, her smile strained, her posture stiff.
Sebastian lowered himself onto the leather couch, scanning the room.
The office was a study in understated luxury. Mahogany bookshelves. A marble coffee table. But what caught his eye was the painting behind “Evelyn”—a tiger prowling through mist-laden mountains, its gaze fierce.
“Impressive piece,” he remarked.
Evelyn’s breath hitched.
In three years of marriage, she had never once earned his praise. Not her cooking, not her efforts, not her sacrifices. And now? A compliment. Over a painting.
Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “You like it?”
“Mm.”
“Take it, then. Consider it a welcome gift.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicked back to the artwork. “The brushwork suggests a master. It’d be rude to accept.”
Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her cup.
Oh, Sebastian. You have no idea what’s coming.
