Chapter 88
“I warned him never to contact you again. And I wasn’t exactly polite about it. I wonder what was going through his mind at the time.”
“Good. A filthy bastard like him doesn’t deserve a place in my life. Not when I’m the cherished sister of Whitmore Holdings’ CEO.”
“Absolutely. Every man in Whitmore Holdings worships the ground you walk on.” Nathan smiled affectionately as he ruffled his younger sister’s hair.
“Nathan, hand me your phone,” Evelyn demanded.
Without hesitation, he passed it over, though his brows furrowed slightly. “Your birthday’s the passcode.”
“Got it.”
Evelyn swiftly navigated to the contacts list and blocked Zachary’s number without a second thought.
“Brutal,” Nathan remarked, though a smirk tugged at his lips.
“If I don’t cut ties completely, that bastard will never learn his lesson.”
The moment Zachary’s name left her lips, Evelyn’s gaze turned glacial.
It was safe to say Zachary hadn’t slept or eaten properly in days—all because of his ex-wife’s sudden disappearance.
Ever since Evelyn vanished, Archibald had been hounding Zachary relentlessly. The old man had become far more difficult to handle than before.
“Mr. Blackwood, why don’t we file a missing person’s report?” Maxwell suggested, scrambling for solutions. “You and Madam Evelyn haven’t finalized the divorce yet. Legally, you’re still married. It’s perfectly reasonable for a husband to search for his missing wife. She might resurface once the report is made.”
“Are you an idiot?” Zachary shot him a withering glare.
“Then what do you suggest? It’s like she’s vanished into thin air! No phone, no friends—and the one person who does know her whereabouts refuses to speak to you—”
Zachary’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his fingers twitching with the urge to throw Maxwell out of his office.
Last night, he’d tried calling Nathan again, only to discover he’d been blocked.
It was the first time in his life someone had dared to block him. For a full minute, he’d just sat there, stunned, his mind blank. It took him over ten minutes to process the sheer audacity.
Nathan had not only trampled on his pride—he’d spat on it. The humiliation burned.
Without another word, Zachary stood, shrugged on his suit jacket, and headed for the door.
“Get the car ready. We’re going to Whitmore Grand Hotel.”
Evelyn had thrown herself into work the moment she returned from Faircrest.
Tristan had been holding meetings with senior management in her absence, and seeing her return in high spirits eased his worries.
Whitmore Grand Hotel’s occupancy rate had risen by 20%—not groundbreaking, but a solid improvement.
Evelyn had also revamped the menus for both the buffet and the hotel’s upscale restaurants, launching a week-long culinary event that drew food enthusiasts from across the city. The F&B profits had skyrocketed.
But Evelyn wasn’t satisfied.
She was Reginald Whitmore’s daughter—ambition ran in her blood. She wanted Whitmore Grand Hotel to rank among the world’s most prestigious, surpassing even Blackwood Enterprises’ flagship property.
Her marriage to Zachary had been a disaster.
She refused to let business be another defeat.
“I heard someone finally booked the presidential suite,” Evelyn mused as she skimmed through financial reports. “It’s been vacant for two years.”
“Guess who it is,” Tristan teased, circling behind her to massage her shoulders with practiced ease.
“Don’t tell me it’s Lucian Ashford.”
“Worse. Cassandra Blackwood.”
Evelyn’s brows shot up. “Oh? What’s she doing in a suite that big?”
“According to housekeeping, she checked in with three friends and threw an all-night rager.” Tristan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Two male models slipped in around midnight. Let’s just say the soundproofing was put to good use.”
“They left at dawn—probably trying to avoid attention.”
“I always knew Cassandra was a slut, but three women sharing two men?” Evelyn wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Tell housekeeping to sanitize the suite thoroughly after checkout. Burn the linens, too. I won’t have guests catching whatever diseases those idiots left behind.”
Just then, Tristan’s phone rang. A senior manager was calling.
He listened for barely ten seconds before his expression darkened.
“What’s wrong?” Evelyn sensed trouble instantly.
“Ms. Sinclair, Cassandra’s causing a scene in the lobby. She’s accusing one of our housekeepers of—”
