Chapter 8

Evelyn Roland responded with a lazy "Mm-hmm," and Dylan Orlando on the other end of the line immediately exploded.

"Boss! You're actually the Roland family's heiress?!" Dylan's voice was so shrill it nearly pierced her eardrums. "This is like winning the genetic lottery!"

"Does this mean I get to be the rich sidekick now?" He chuckled shamelessly.

"Get to the point." Evelyn yawned, her tone icy.

To her, the Roland family's wealth meant nothing. She'd always been independent, never relying on anyone.

Besides, the thought of their tangled web of relatives was enough to give her a headache.

"Wait, don't hang up!" Dylan rushed to say. "CH Design Holdings' project in P Country is wrapping up. They're asking when to transfer operations back home."

Evelyn's gaze sharpened.

Over the years, she'd discreetly built numerous overseas ventures to avoid suspicion. Now, it was time to start reeling them in.

"CH isn't established enough domestically. We can't transfer directly." She paused briefly. "Stop taking new orders for now. We'll discuss details tomorrow."

"Got it!" Dylan agreed readily. "I'll pick you up at the Roland estate."

The next morning, Evelyn had barely stepped out of her room when Sophia Roland approached her.

"Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" she asked eagerly. "I made breakfast for you. Would you like something Western or—"

"No need." Evelyn declined flatly. "I have plans with a friend."

Sophia stood holding the homemade meal, watching her daughter walk away, her eyes dimming with disappointment.

From the second-floor landing, Isabella Langley observed the entire scene.

How long had it been since her mother cooked for her?

That ungrateful bitch. But fine—the sooner Sophia realized how unworthy Evelyn was, the better.

When she saw Evelyn get into an unfamiliar Maybach, Isabella's eyes flashed with malice.

Where would a girl from the Lowell family get such wealthy friends? Something was definitely fishy.

Dylan had chosen the newly opened Le Bar du Ritz for their meeting. Even in the morning, the bar was already bustling, the lights dim and hazy.

"Why here?" Evelyn frowned.

"Supporting a friend's new business," Dylan said with an appeasing smile. "Besides, places like this are ironically the safest."

Evelyn couldn't be bothered to argue and followed him to a booth.

Dressed simply in a white button-down and jeans, her bare face stood out starkly against the bar's neon glow.

Within ten minutes, multiple men had approached her, only to be met with glacial rejections.

"This is what you call 'quiet'?" She shot Dylan a sidelong glare.

Just as he opened his mouth to explain, another unwelcome guest appeared.

"Fancy seeing you here, beautiful." Dominic Laurent stubbed out his cigarette, eyes lighting up with delight.

After driving her back to the Roland estate, he hadn't been able to forget this intriguing girl.

Evelyn lifted her gaze, expression indifferent. "Do I know you?"

"Playing dumb?" Dominic grinned. "I'm the one who personally escorted you home."

"Oh." Her voice was frosty. "The guy with the fifth-hand Santana?"

Dominic's face flushed crimson. His friends behind him burst into laughter.

"Since when does Young Master Laurent drive such a wreck?"

"Fifth-hand? Hahaha, more like battle-scarred!"

Dylan was about to suggest moving to a private room when Dominic plopped down beside them.

"Little sister, places like this are full of creeps." He shot Dylan a meaningful look. "You should be careful."

Dylan's temper flared. "Who the hell do you think you are? Back off from Evelyn!"

"I'm a friend of her brother!" Dominic's face darkened. "You're the one bringing a girl here—what are your intentions?"

"My relationship with Evelyn is none of your—"

Dylan nearly blurted out "boss" before Evelyn yanked his arm.

The two men squared off, each grabbing one of Evelyn's arms in a tug-of-war.

"Come with me!" Dominic demanded.

"She came with me!" Dylan refused to back down.

Evelyn winced at the painful pulling. Just as she was about to snap, a mocking laugh cut through the noise.

She turned and locked eyes with a pair of amused ones.

The cripple from the Maybach?