Chapter 62
Evelyn’s declaration sent shockwaves through the room.
All eyes turned to scrutinize Penelope with newfound suspicion. None had guessed this elegant woman was once Sebastian Blackwood’s wife. They’d assumed Evelyn Sinclair came from old money—someone with the audacity to challenge Alistair Blackwood’s wife must have formidable backing.
Penelope trembled with rage, her crimson nails digging into her clutch. “My, how you’ve changed, Evelyn. Clawing your way up the social ladder has certainly loosened your tongue.”
Evelyn merely arched a brow, unfazed by the venom.
“I mirror what’s given to me. Courtesy for courtesy, bluntness for rudeness. What does that have to do with social climbing?”
A flush crept up Penelope’s neck. Cassandra sprang forward like an unleashed terrier. “Ms. Sinclair! You dare disrespect my mother?”
A cold chuckle escaped Evelyn’s lips.
Cassandra had inherited Penelope’s spite but none of her cunning. Evelyn wouldn’t waste breath on such transparent hostility.
Tristan stepped forward, his broad frame shielding Evelyn. “We all witnessed who provoked whom.”
“Oh? Not just Mr. Whitmore’s protection, but this handsome knight too?” Vanessa sneered from the sidelines. “How… resourceful of you, Ms. Sinclair.”
Evelyn’s gaze turned arctic. “Libel carries consequences, Vanessa. Are you prepared to pay the price?”
Vanessa recoiled. The timid country mouse she’d bullied now radiated dangerous poise. This Evelyn was unpredictable—a realization that chilled her.
“Really, Ms. Sinclair,” Seraphina purred, “your presence here is… unfortunate. We’re simply sparing you embarrassment.” Her smile turned viperous. “Meddling in Vanessa and Sebastian’s affairs was your first mistake. Must you compound it by shadowing him?”
The crowd murmured, eyes darting between Evelyn and Vanessa. So this was the discarded wife—the other woman in their love triangle!
“Meddle?” Evelyn’s laughter rang out, sharp as shattered crystal. “Your mind rots faster than your company’s furniture, Mrs. Delmar.”
Seraphina’s face purpled.
“I married a single man. Your daughter’s failed relationship isn’t my burden.” Evelyn’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “But shall we discuss how Vanessa pursued my husband during our marriage? Should I detail every text, every call?”
Both Delmar women paled. Vanessa’s breath hitched—she’d sent countless vile messages, even midnight diatribes. Evelyn’s silence then had been mistaken for weakness. Now, those sins hung over her like a guillotine.
“Tristan,” Evelyn commanded.
Her assistant produced a document that silenced the room—a marriage certificate, its embossed seal glinting under the chandeliers.
“Observe,” Evelyn murmured, tracing the unbroken gold band in the photo. “Our divorce isn’t finalized. Yet some vultures can’t wait to pick at living flesh.”
Vanessa swayed, the room tilting. Who carried proof of marriage like some twisted trophy? Only Evelyn Sinclair—a woman who turned propriety into a weapon.
