Chapter 292

Eleanor Whitmore could never have predicted her son Nathaniel, known for his icy demeanor, would openly flirt with Vivian Lockhart—the woman she considered a walking disaster. Witnessing this was more shocking than spotting extraterrestrials in Newport City.

"Nat, have you lost your mind? You used to ignore her existence. Why are you suddenly acting like this?" Eleanor's voice trembled with disbelief. "Tell me you're not actually trying to seduce her."

Nathaniel merely shrugged, his expression unreadable.

That silence confirmed Eleanor's worst fears.

Had Vivian been the one pursuing him, she might have understood. But seeing her son chase after his ex-wife? It stripped her of any moral superiority.

"Are you brain-damaged, or has she bewitched you? Do you realize what you're doing? Why are you chasing this walking catastrophe?"

Eleanor's temper flared. She began smacking Nathaniel's arm in frustration.

"Open your eyes!" she shrieked between hits. "For heaven's sake, open your damn eyes! Why are you chasing the woman you divorced? A stallion doesn't return to graze on dead grass! You're humiliating our family!"

Vivian watched Eleanor's outburst with mild alarm, discreetly stepping back to avoid collateral damage.

"Mrs. Whitmore," she interjected coolly, "let's clarify. Technically, I'm not the woman your son divorced—I'm the one who dumped him. And he hasn't 'grazed' anything, because I haven't allowed it."

That drunken night didn't count. In Vivian's mind, it had been mutual indulgence, not submission.

Eleanor's face burned with humiliation. Her strikes grew fiercer. "Did you hear that? She's never cared about you! Stop embarrassing yourself! Put some clothes on!"

Nathaniel remained impassive. "There aren't any."

"You—!"

Eleanor massaged her temples, convinced this situation would give her a stroke.

Meanwhile, Vivian snatched an abandoned tracksuit and slipped into it. Nathaniel rummaged through the wardrobe, retrieving old casual wear.

Finally, the scene looked less scandalous.

Then Eleanor recognized the tracksuit.

Rage reignited.

Those were Cassandra Delacroix's clothes.

"You vile creature!" Eleanor hissed, fists clenched. "Admit it—did you murder Cassandra and my unborn grandchild?"

Vivian didn't flinch. She met Nathaniel's gaze instead. "Cassandra Delacroix committed suicide. Your son knows exactly what happened."

The mention of Cassandra's death still stung.

Cassandra had been the villain, yet Nathaniel had protected her unconditionally—even faking her death. The betrayal still burned.

"Nat, explain this," Eleanor demanded.

Nathaniel stayed silent. His lack of denial confirmed everything.

"See?" Vivian's laugh was razor-sharp. "Your son answered you. Don't waste sympathy on Cassandra. A woman like her would never kill herself."

Though she'd suspected Nathaniel hid Cassandra, hearing his silent confirmation still carved a fresh wound. Disappointment settled heavily in her chest.