Chapter 21

Nathaniel cut Evelyn off with a sharp, "Let's focus on dinner for now."

Eleanor smiled warmly at Evelyn and gestured to the table. "I had the kitchen prepare your favorite—lobster bisque." She turned to Nathaniel. "Serve your wife, dear."

Evelyn's fingers twitched. She wanted to reach for the ladle herself, but Nathaniel was faster. He took her bowl and filled it without a word.

Staring at the creamy soup, her stomach twisted.

"Is there a problem?" Beatrice scoffed. "My son went out of his way to serve you. Are you ungrateful?"

Eleanor studied Evelyn with concern. "Do you not like it anymore, dear?"

"That's not it," Evelyn said quickly. "I do."

As she lifted a spoonful, she felt Nathaniel's gaze burning into her. The moment the rich scent hit her nose, her face paled.

She forced down one mouthful but couldn't stomach a second.

A few seconds later, Evelyn dropped her spoon and clutched her stomach, fighting the urge to retch.

It made no sense. She'd always loved lobster bisque—why was it revolting now?

Eleanor gasped, eyes lighting up. "Evelyn… could you be pregnant?"

Silence. Then two pairs of shocked eyes locked onto her.

Evelyn's breath hitched. Panic flared. How had Eleanor guessed?

The nausea surged harder. She barely made it to the bathroom before heaving violently, her stomach emptying itself until only bile remained.

A hand offered her a tissue. She took it without looking.

"Thank—"

Her words died when she turned and saw Nathaniel.

She looked away, voice tight. "It's just a stomach bug. Stress, probably."

His deep voice cut through the air. "If you're sick, Dr. Reynolds should examine you."

Her pulse spiked. "No need. It's minor. I'll be fine."

"Is that so?"

Nathaniel stepped closer, trapping her against the sink. She couldn't escape.

Her gaze dropped to his navy tie—the one she'd picked out earlier. He'd worn it after all.

"Look at me, Evelyn."

When she hesitated, he gripped her chin, forcing her eyes up. His dark stare was relentless.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Her throat tightened. "What exactly are you asking, Mr. Whitmore?"

Mr. Whitmore?

She used to say his name so softly, so carefully. Now, after finding someone else, she'd grown bold.

Nathaniel leaned in, fury simmering. "You know damn well what I'm asking."

Evelyn clenched her fists, steadying herself. "I'm not pregnant. If you don't believe me—"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Her breath caught. For a fleeting second, she thought—he trusts me?

But his next words shattered that illusion.

"You were in a hotel with another man last night. If you were pregnant, do you really think a child would survive that kind of recklessness?"

Her face drained of color. Of course. He didn’t trust her—he was mocking her.

She lowered her lashes, hiding the sting.

Nathaniel wasn’t done. "Answer me. Who were you with?"

Evelyn exhaled slowly. As long as he didn’t suspect the truth, his accusations didn’t matter.

"We're getting a divorce," she said flatly. "Who I spend my time with isn’t your concern."

Nathaniel yanked at his tie, frustration boiling over. "Which part of you is even real, Evelyn? You claimed you married me because you loved me. Was that a lie too?"