Chapter 121

The morning sun cast golden streaks across the bedroom as Evelyn stirred awake. Beside her, Nathaniel slept soundly, his breathing steady. She traced the sharp line of his jaw with her fingertips, marveling at how peaceful he looked.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet.

"Mrs. Martin?" Alfred's voice was muffled through the door. "Mr. Edward has requested your presence in the study."

Evelyn frowned. Edward rarely summoned her directly. Something must be urgent.

"I'll be right there," she replied, slipping out of bed.

Nathaniel stirred, his arm reaching out instinctively. "Where are you going?" His voice was rough with sleep.

"Your grandfather wants to see me," she said, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. "Go back to sleep."

His grip tightened briefly before he let her go.

Downstairs, the study door was slightly ajar. Evelyn hesitated before knocking.

"Come in," Edward's voice rang out.

She stepped inside to find him seated behind his massive oak desk, his expression unreadable. Winston stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back.

"You wanted to see me?" Evelyn asked.

Edward gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit."

She obeyed, her pulse quickening.

"I received an interesting call this morning," he began, steepling his fingers. "From Isabella Davis."

Evelyn's breath hitched. Isabella—Nathaniel's ex, the woman who had nearly destroyed their marriage.

"What did she want?" Evelyn forced her voice to remain steady.

Edward's gaze sharpened. "She claims to have information that could damage the Martin family's reputation. Specifically, regarding Nathaniel."

Evelyn's nails dug into her palms. "What kind of information?"

"That," Edward said slowly, "is what I need you to find out."

Her stomach twisted. "Me?"

"You have a way of handling these situations discreetly," he said. "And Nathaniel trusts you."

Evelyn swallowed hard. This was a test—one she couldn't afford to fail.

"I'll handle it," she said firmly.

Edward nodded, satisfied. "Good. Keep me updated."

As she left the study, Evelyn's mind raced. What could Isabella possibly know? And more importantly—how far would she go to use it against them?

The game had just gotten more dangerous.

Evelyn's expression turned icy as silence stretched between them. She stood abruptly, intending to retreat to the sanctuary of her bedroom, leaving Nathaniel to his drunken stupor.

But before she could take a single step, his fingers closed around her wrist like a vice. His voice, rough with intoxication, murmured, "Evelyn, we're still married. That means half of this apartment is mine."

She exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath her skin. "Nathaniel, be reasonable. I rented this place with my own money."

His grip tightened slightly. "Do you hate me?" His voice was low, almost wounded. "Why are you so desperate to end things?"

The question froze her in place. Her pulse stuttered, an unfamiliar ache flaring in her chest.

Hate him?

The truth was far more dangerous. She had chosen to leave precisely because she feared she couldn't hate him.

Yet here he was—the one who had demanded the divorce—now refusing to let go.

She swallowed hard, forcing her emotions down.

Her silence seemed to provoke him. Without warning, he yanked her into his arms.

Evelyn gasped, instinctively pressing a protective hand to her abdomen as she struggled. "Nathaniel, what are you doing?"

But he held her tighter, his drunken strength making resistance futile. His breath was warm against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"Answer me," he demanded, voice rough. "Do you hate me?"

"No."

"You're lying."

She clenched her jaw. "If you won't believe me, then there's nothing I can do."

His fingers dug into her waist, his words slurring slightly. "You wouldn't even take care of me when I was drunk. Just handed me off to someone else. That's cold, Evelyn. I'm still your husband."

She exhaled sharply. "Let go. I'll make you something to sober up."

His laugh was humorless. "I don't trust you."

He wasn't wrong. She hadn't stocked her kitchen with hangover remedies.

They were at a standstill—his grip unrelenting, her patience thinning. The pressure on her waist would surely leave bruises.

Evelyn gritted her teeth. "What do you want from me, Nathaniel? It's late. We both have work tomorrow. We can talk when you're sober."

Instead of answering, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath scorching against her skin. She stiffened, but he only pulled her closer, leaving no space between them.

Finally, he muttered, "I want a bath. Draw one for me."

She hesitated, but he shifted restlessly, his fingers tightening in silent warning. Reluctantly, she nodded.

Yet even as she led him to the bathroom, he refused to release her hand.

Evelyn turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature before setting out fresh towels and soap within his reach. When she turned back, his gaze was locked onto her—dark, intense, and utterly unreadable.

The steam curled between them, softening the sharp lines of his face. Even disheveled, he was unfairly handsome.

She looked away first. "It's ready. Call if you need anything."

She tried to pull free, but his fingers tangled with hers. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Help me."