Chapter 4
Five days later, Zachary Blackwood summoned his secretary, Maxwell Reeves, to his office.
“How is the investigation on Evelyn Sinclair going?”
Zachary stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his tall frame casting a commanding shadow over the sleek marble floor. The city of Faircrest sprawled beneath him, glittering under the afternoon sun.
Maxwell swallowed hard. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood. There hasn’t been any progress.” His fingers tightened around the tablet in his hands. “After Madam Evelyn left that night, she didn’t return to the medical center where she worked. I even checked her listed address, but it turned out to be fake. There are no families with the last name Sinclair in that area.”
Zachary’s jaw clenched. He turned slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto Maxwell. “The address was fabricated?”
“Yes. I verified with the local authorities—no such person exists.” Maxwell hesitated before adding, “She was never who she claimed to be.”
A cold fury settled in Zachary’s chest. Who had he married? A con artist? A spy?
“She left with Nathan Whitmore that night. Have you found anything linking her to him?”
Maxwell exhaled. “To be honest, if Mr. Whitmore is deliberately hiding her, it won’t be easy to uncover anything.”
Zachary’s fingers curled into fists. “Nathan Whitmore—the man who presents himself as the epitome of nobility—resorts to stealing another man’s wife?”
“Well… technically, he didn’t steal her. He just… took over the position.”
Zachary’s glare silenced him instantly.
The memory of that night burned in his mind—Nathan shielding Evelyn with a possessiveness that made Zachary’s blood boil. Why? His wife had always been unremarkable, quiet. And Nathan? A ruthless businessman known for his icy demeanor. How had Evelyn managed to ensnare a man like him?
“Zachary, can we not get a divorce?”
“It’s because I love you!”
Her words from that day echoed in his ears.
“Liar,” he muttered, his voice dangerously low. The air in the room turned frigid.
Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—Vanessa Delacroix. He answered, his tone clipped. “Vanessa?”
“Zachary, I’m in your company’s lobby!” Her sugary voice dripped through the speaker, making Maxwell suppress a shudder. “I made your favorite dessert. Come down and bring me up—I want you to try it while it’s still warm!”
“You’re here?” His frown deepened.
“Yes. Is that a problem?” She pouted audibly. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see me?”
Zachary exhaled sharply. “Maxwell will escort you up.”
He ended the call, his expression darkening. The divorce wasn’t finalized yet. If rumors spread about Vanessa visiting him now, it could complicate things. Not that he cared about gossip—but the timing was inconvenient.
His phone buzzed again. The caller ID made his stomach drop.
“Grandfather.”
“You insolent fool!” Archibald Blackwood’s roar rattled the phone. “Have you lost all sense of decency? I warned you—if you married Evelyn, you were to cut ties with that woman! And now you bring her to your office? Have you no regard for Evelyn’s dignity? Get your ass over here now!”
The tension in the Blackwood estate’s reception room was suffocating. Archibald sat stiffly in his armchair, his cane gripped tightly in one hand while his secretary and son, Alistair, hovered nearby. His face was thunderous.
Zachary stood before him, posture rigid. Outside, Vanessa waited, barred from entering after Archibald’s scathing remark: “That gold-digging tramp isn’t welcome in my home.”
“Explain yourself!” Archibald slammed his cane against the floor.
“Father, please, calm down—” Alistair tried to intervene, shooting Zachary a warning look.
“Grandfather, the three-year agreement is over,” Zachary said coolly. “You promised me—marry Evelyn Sinclair for three years, and after that, I could choose to stay or leave. The contract is fulfilled.”
Archibald paled. He had grown fond of Evelyn over the years—so much so that he hadn’t realized how quickly time had passed.
“Now, I’m ending this marriage to be with the woman I love. You have no right to object. Evelyn has already signed the papers. The formalities will be completed soon.”
“You divorced her?” Archibald’s face twisted in outrage. He shot to his feet—then swayed dangerously, his vision blurring.
Zachary lunged forward to steady him, but Archibald shoved him away.
“Father, they haven’t finalized the divorce yet!” Alistair said urgently. “It’s just the paperwork. You just recovered from a stroke—you can’t afford to be upset!”
Archibald groaned. “What sin have I committed to deserve this? First, your mother was a disappointment, and now my own grandson brings shame upon this family!”
Zachary stood frozen, his hand still outstretched.
“I want Evelyn back!” Archibald’s voice cracked like a petulant child’s. “If you divorce her, I won’t eat! I won’t sleep! I refuse to accept anyone else as my granddaughter-in-law!” He jabbed his cane toward Zachary. “Call her. Now!”
“It’s pointless, Grandfather. Even if she visits you, our marriage is over. It’s not continuing.” Zachary’s tone was final.
Archibald let out a strangled cry—then his body jerked violently before he collapsed backward.
Panic erupted. Alistair shouted for the doctor while Zachary scrambled for his grandfather’s medication.
With no other choice, Zachary dialed Evelyn’s number.
“The number you have dialed is not in service.”
She had disappeared—and erased all traces of herself.
“Damn it!” Zachary’s fist smashed against the wall.
Meanwhile, at the grand entrance of the Whitmore Grand Hotel, executives fidgeted nervously as they awaited their new general manager.
“Rumor has it she’s young. A woman.”
One scoffed. “Four men before her failed to turn this place around. What makes anyone think she can?”
Another smirked. “Word is she’s Mr. Whitmore’s daughter.”
“Probably an illegitimate one,” someone muttered. “Otherwise, why dump her here to clean up this mess?”
Laughter rippled through the group—until a fleet of luxury cars rolled up.
A Rolls-Royce Phantom led the procession, followed by three Maybachs. The license plate—9999—silenced every whisper.
The door opened.
First, a pair of towering black stilettos touched the pavement. Then, long legs. A figure wrapped in a tailored black dress stepped out, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.
The crowd held its breath.
She was breathtaking.
And terrifying.
“Good afternoon,” Evelyn Sinclair said, her crimson lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her cold, assessing eyes. “I’m your new general manager. And for the record—” Her gaze swept over the stunned faces. “I’m no illegitimate daughter. Pity to ruin your gossip.”
The color drained from the offenders’ faces.
