Chapter 5
The whispers of the executives reached her ears like poison-tipped arrows.
“How dare they speak like that! You’re the sole heiress of the Whitmore dynasty, the first wife’s daughter. Have they lost their minds?” Tristan Gallagher, Evelyn’s secretary, bristled with indignation, his knuckles whitening around his tablet.
Evelyn’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Darling, that antiquated hierarchy means nothing. If I don’t care about bloodlines, why should you?” She reached out, tracing a teasing finger along Tristan’s flushed cheekbone. The young man’s ears turned crimson.
“Evelyn,” Nathan Whitmore sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “As Whitmore Holdings’ future CEO, must you always torment your staff?”
“Double standards, brother dear.” She flicked her chestnut hair over one shoulder. “Male executives grope secretaries daily. Shouldn’t a female boss enjoy the same privileges?” Her smirk deepened as Tristan choked on his coffee. “Consider this your royal favor.”
Nathan shook his head, though his eyes sparkled with brotherly affection.
The executive entourage swarmed around them. Gregory Holloway, one of the VPs, gestured toward the VIP elevator, but Evelyn held up a manicured hand. “First, the restaurant inspection.”
No pleasantries. No warnings. Just the razor-sharp focus of a predator circling wounded prey. Gregory’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he led them to the buffet hall.
Nathan became a silent shadow, granting his sister full rein.
Pre-lunch hours meant empty tables, but staff already arranged seafood displays. Evelyn’s stilettoes clicked against marble as she paused before the lobster tank. Without hesitation, she rolled up her Chanel sleeve and plunged her hand into the icy water.
A collective gasp echoed as she extracted a lifeless crustacean.
“Explain.”
“I-It’s merely resting!” Gregory stammered.
“Wonderful.” Evelyn dropped the shrimp onto his trembling palm. “Bon appétit.”
“Ms. Sinclair, statistically speaking, among hundreds—”
“Statistics?” Her laugh was glacial. “Guests pay $500 a night to vomit in our gold-plated toilets? There are 356 shrimp here. Five dead. Thirty dying. Replace every supplier by dawn or you’ll personally taste-test tomorrow’s catch.”
Gregory swayed as executives exchanged panicked glances. Only Nathan and Tristan remained unruffled—they’d seen Evelyn memorize entire crime scenes during her medical residency. Shrimp arithmetic was child’s play.
In the guest wing, Evelyn accepted Tristan’s monogrammed handkerchief. She dragged the linen across a gilded frame, then held up dust-coated fabric. “Re-clean every suite.”
Muffled groans rippled through the staff.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she murmured, examining her perfect nude polish. “‘This ice queen’s nitpicking.’ But empires crumble from such ‘trivial’ dust.” Her gaze sharpened. “One inspector sees this? We lose a Michelin star.”
At her nod, Tristan commanded, “Open 1702.”
The housekeeping manager scrambled. Past inspections involved staged rooms, but Evelyn marched straight to the unmade bed. The moment her palm pressed against the mattress, her expression darkened. She left without a word.
Back in her corner office, Evelyn collapsed onto the Chesterfield sofa. “That place is a glorified brothel,” she groaned, massaging her temples. “Is Father testing me or torturing me? Since when do Whitmores tolerate such filth?”
Nathan poured two fingers of Macallan. “Grandfather built that hotel with his bare hands. It funded our first steel mills.” He pressed the glass into her palm. “We expanded too fast, neglected hospitality. Now it’s your mess to fix.”
Her attention snagged on the Steinway gleaming in the corner.
“I had it brought up,” Nathan said softly. “Remember how you’d play Chopin after bad surgeries? Or ride Stormchaser at dawn when—”
“Thank you.” Her throat tightened. “But I don’t play anymore.”
Nathan stilled. “Since when?”
“Field hospital in Eldermere.” She flexed her right hand, the pinky slightly crooked. “Tore ligaments extracting shrapnel from a soldier. Can’t span octaves now.”
“Was it… him?”
The unspoken name hung between them—Sebastian Blackwood.
Evelyn’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “War casualties come in many forms.”
Five years ago, on that blood-soaked border, she’d been Dr. Sinclair patching up Special Forces operatives. He’d been Captain Blackwood bleeding out from enemy fire. She’d wrecked her surgical career saving the man who’d later shatter her heart.
The piano stood as a cruel monument to all she’d lost.
Tristan burst in, tablet aloft. “The bedding supplier—Elysian Home again. Gregory’s contact.”
Evelyn’s spine straightened. “Elysian? As in Raphael Delacroix’s company?” Her stiletto tapped a lethal rhythm. “Freeze all payments. Find new suppliers. Burn every Elysian thread in that hotel.”
“Petty revenge?” Nathan arched a brow.
“Business rigor,” she corrected. “Those mattresses could petrify Medusa.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “Also, Archibald Blackwood was admitted to our medical center. Another stroke.”
The glass slipped from Evelyn’s grasp.
Before she could respond, Nathan’s phone buzzed with a message that made him smirk. “Speak of the devil…”
