Chapter 93

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse, casting golden patterns across the marble floors. I stretched beneath the silk sheets, my fingers brushing against the cold space where Nathaniel should have been. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 7:32 AM in bold red numbers.

"Alfred?" I called out, my voice still thick with sleep.

The door opened immediately, revealing our ever-efficient butler. "Good morning, Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin left for the office two hours ago. He asked me to inform you he has an important meeting with the Japanese investors today."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. Another morning without him. The merger with Tanaka Corporation had consumed Nathaniel completely these past weeks. "Please have Rosalind prepare my usual breakfast. And tell Gabrielle I'll be in the office by nine."

As I stepped into the shower, the hot water did little to ease the tension in my shoulders. My architectural firm's deadline for the waterfront project loomed closer, and Gregory had been sending increasingly frantic messages about zoning permits. The steam fogged up the mirror as I toweled off, obscuring my reflection - much like how my life had become lately, blurred at the edges from exhaustion.

The dining table was set with precision - fresh orange juice in a crystal glass, avocado toast arranged artfully on bone china, and a single red rose in a slender vase. Rosalind's quiet efficiency reminded me of Alfred, though her pastries were far superior. I was halfway through my coffee when my phone buzzed.

A text from Caroline: "Emergency brunch needed. The hospital just assigned me to the night shift rotation. Save me from this caffeine-deprived hell?"

I smiled despite myself. My cousin never changed. Typing a quick reply, I promised to meet her at our usual café after my morning site inspection.

The elevator doors opened to reveal Gabrielle holding two steaming to-go cups, her auburn hair pulled into a messy bun. "Double shot espresso, just how you like it," she said, handing me one. "Gregory's already at the construction site. Apparently, the city inspector showed up unannounced."

I groaned, taking a scalding sip. "Of course he did. Because today wasn't stressful enough already." The car ride passed in a blur of phone calls and last-minute revisions to blueprints. By the time we arrived at the waterfront, my coffee was gone and my patience was wearing thin.

The construction site buzzed with activity, workers moving like ants across the steel skeleton of what would become the city's newest luxury condominium. Gregory stood near the foundation, gesturing animatedly at a man in a hard hat holding a clipboard. His salt-and-pepper hair was more disheveled than usual, a sure sign of trouble.

"Evelyn, thank God," he said, spotting me. "This gentleman seems to think our cantilever design violates the new coastal construction codes."

I extended my hand to the inspector, forcing a professional smile. "I assure you, we've accounted for all the updated regulations. If you'll come to the trailer, I can show you the revised schematics."

Three hours and countless technical explanations later, the inspector finally left with a grudging approval. Gregory collapsed into a folding chair, wiping his brow. "Remind me why we took this project again?"

"Because it's our biggest commission yet," I said, massaging my aching temples. "And because we're gluttons for punishment."

My phone chimed with a calendar reminder: "Lunch with V.M. - 1 PM." Victoria Martin's monthly "casual" lunches were anything but, though I'd learned to navigate them with practiced ease. Today's venue was a new French bistro downtown, no doubt chosen for its exclusivity rather than its cuisine.

I arrived five minutes early, as always, to find Victoria already seated at a secluded corner table. She looked immaculate as usual, her silver-blonde hair swept into a chignon, a strand of pearls at her throat. "Evelyn, darling," she said, air-kissing my cheeks. "You look exhausted."

"Just busy with the waterfront project," I said, accepting the menu from the waiter. "Nathaniel sends his regrets - he's in meetings all day."

Victoria's lips pursed slightly. "That boy works too hard. Though I suppose he comes by it honestly." She sipped her mineral water. "Speaking of which, Edward has been asking about you both. He wants the family at the estate this weekend for dinner."

I kept my expression neutral, though my stomach tightened. Family dinners at the Martin estate were minefields disguised as social gatherings. "I'll check with Nathaniel, but we should be able to make it."

The conversation turned to safer topics - the upcoming charity gala, Victoria's garden club, the dreadful state of modern architecture (a not-so-subtle dig at my profession). By the time dessert arrived - a ridiculously elaborate chocolate soufflé - my phone buzzed with a text from Nathaniel: "Emergency at the office. Have to cancel our dinner plans. So sorry, love."

I stared at the message, the sweet dessert suddenly tasting like ash. Another cancelled date. Another night alone. Victoria noticed my expression and reached across the table, her manicured fingers brushing mine. "He'll slow down eventually, dear. All Martin men do... usually around their first heart attack."

It was meant to be comforting. It wasn't.

The afternoon passed in a haze of meetings and emails. By seven o'clock, even Gabrielle looked ready to collapse. "Go home," I told her, shutting down my computer. "I'll finish these renderings tomorrow."

The penthouse was dark when I arrived, Alfred's note on the foyer table informing me Nathaniel was still at the office. I changed into sweatpants and an old MIT hoodie, pouring myself a generous glass of cabernet before curling up on the sofa. The television played some forgettable rom-com, the volume low as I scrolled through my phone.

A notification popped up - a tagged photo from Isabella Davis's Instagram. My thumb hovered over it before I could stop myself. The image loaded to reveal Isabella at some glamorous event, her arm linked with a familiar broad-shouldered figure in a tuxedo. Nathaniel. Smiling. At a gala I hadn't even known he was attending.

The timestamp showed the photo was taken two hours ago.

The wine glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the marble floor like my carefully constructed composure. Red liquid spread across the pale stone like blood, seeping into the grout where no amount of scrubbing would ever fully remove the stain.

"It's merely a standard corporate decision. Why should Evelyn be upset? Besides, how does the Mitchell Group's project benefit the Martin Group? There's nothing wrong with prioritizing the Martin Group's growth over a less significant venture."

After ending the call, Nathaniel didn’t return to the bedroom immediately. Instead, he lingered on the balcony, lighting a cigarette. His expression was unreadable as he recalled the image of Evelyn chatting with Isaac in the private room—so relaxed, so unguarded. It was a side of her he rarely saw, one that stirred an unfamiliar discomfort in his chest.

A sharp, unwelcome irritation coiled inside him.

They were husband and wife. As long as they remained married, every part of her belonged to him.

Yet something was shifting beyond his control, slipping through his fingers like smoke. Nathaniel couldn’t quite name the feeling, but it unsettled him.

When Evelyn woke the next morning, Nathaniel was already gone.

After breakfast, she headed to the office.

On the way, Isaac called. "Are you free tonight? Cole’s friend is having a birthday party, and I need a plus-one."

"So you came to Mayby to do Cole a favor?"

"If I'd known it would be this troublesome, I would’ve refused," Isaac grumbled.

Evelyn laughed. "He should’ve worked on your social anxiety years ago."

"Enough. Just pick me up tonight. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days anyway."

"Fine. Do I need to bring anything?"

Isaac considered it. "No, the gift’s already taken care of."

After hanging up, Evelyn realized she hadn’t told Isaac about the dinner yet. She could already imagine his reaction when she and Nathaniel eventually divorced. He’d tease her mercilessly—especially since he knew she’d only just gotten married.

Shaking her head, she pushed the thought aside and texted Nathaniel.

[Nathaniel, I’m attending a birthday party with Isaac tonight. I’ll be home late.]

His reply was curt.

[Fine.]

One word, loaded with unspoken tension.

Evelyn frowned but didn’t respond further—the Mitchell Group’s PR team had just arrived.

She and Gregory received them. The PR manager smiled warmly. "The Mitchell Group is interested in collaborating with your firm. Mr. William Mitchell admires your design aesthetic—it aligns perfectly with our new youthful vitality campaign. Would you consider partnering with us?"

Evelyn’s identity wasn’t public knowledge. Few knew of her connection to the Mitchell Group, and certainly not their employees.

Gregory handled the response smoothly. "We’re honored the Mitchell Group would consider us. However, we’re currently engaged with the Martin Group and need to assess our capacity before committing."

"Understandable. But do think it over. And Ms. Mitchell—what a coincidence, sharing our name. We’d ensure favorable terms for you."

Evelyn offered a polite smile. The decision required more deliberation.

After seeing them out, Evelyn turned to Gregory. "They approached us awfully fast."

"You haven’t heard? The Martin Group issued a statement withdrawing support for their project. It’s a subtle way of declaring they won’t work with the Mitchell Group—and now others are following suit."

The Martin Group’s influence was undeniable. No one dared oppose them.

Evelyn stiffened.

Why was Nathaniel suddenly targeting the Mitchell Group?

She pulled up the news Gregory mentioned—already topping business headlines.

Her brow furrowed. "Why now?"

"He didn’t mention it to you?"

"We don’t discuss work." She shook her head, baffled.

Gregory studied her. "Any recent arguments?"

"No."

"Maybe he’s retaliating for how the Mitchells treated you?"

Evelyn dismissed it. "If he cared about that, he would’ve acted sooner."

So what was the reason?

But this was the Martin Group’s affair. Even as Nathaniel’s wife, she had no right to interfere.

The Mitchells, however, had other ideas.

William’s blood pressure spiked when he saw the news. He called Nathaniel immediately—no answer. Finally, he reached Samuel, who said, "Mr. Martin is in a meeting. Please call back later."

Frustrated, William turned to Evelyn.

Gregory had warned her. "Evelyn, the Mitchell Group stands to lose a lot. Your father will call. What will you say?"

Before she could answer, her phone rang.

William didn’t wait for pleasantries. "Did you fight with Nathaniel? Why would the Martin Group sabotage us? Evelyn, apologize to him and get that statement retracted!"

Evelyn listened silently, her grip tightening on the phone.

"You think Nathaniel did this because of me?"

"Of course! Control your temper. Stop talking about divorce—it’s causing problems for the family!"

His words were sharp, demanding.

Evelyn’s voice turned icy. "Nathaniel and I are fine. This has nothing to do with me."

"Then talk to him! The Mitchell Group can’t afford setbacks right now!"

She exhaled slowly. "I can’t help you. The Martin Group’s decisions aren’t mine to influence."

"What kind of answer is that?"

William’s fury crackled through the line, but Evelyn remained unmoved.

Later, Margaret called, her tone laced with accusation. Evelyn had heard it all before—yet each time still stung.

Gregory placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Evelyn..."

She forced a smile, but the weight of her family’s indifference pressed down, heavier than ever.