Chapter 3

Evelyn's fingers trembled around the pregnancy test. "If I were really pregnant, I wouldn't have agreed to the divorce."

Victoria scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Of course not. A gold digger like you wouldn’t miss a chance to trap Nathaniel with a baby. But even if you were pregnant, he’d never let you keep it. You’re nothing but a commoner—unworthy of carrying a Whitmore heir."

Evelyn turned toward the walk-in closet, but Victoria blocked her path. "Wait. Show me that paper you took from the nightstand."

A flicker of unease crossed Victoria’s face. What if Evelyn was pregnant? She couldn’t risk it. That baby had to disappear.

Evelyn tightened her grip. "This is private."

"Private?" Victoria sneered. "Or are you just stealing something valuable? Hand it over!" She lunged, clawing at Evelyn’s wrist, her other hand raised to strike.

Instinct took over. Evelyn twisted, flipping Victoria onto the floor with a thud. A shrill cry pierced the air. "My leg! You broke my leg!"

"What the hell, Evelyn?"

Nathaniel’s voice cut through the room like ice. Evelyn spun to face him, her stomach dropping at the fury in his eyes. "Nathaniel, it’s not what it looks like—"

He strode past her without a glance, scooping Victoria into his arms. His gaze snagged on the signed divorce papers beside the bed.

Had she really signed them so fast?

"Nathaniel?" Victoria whimpered.

He blinked, refocusing. "Are you hurt?"

"My wrist!" She cradled it dramatically. "What if I can’t play piano again?"

Nathaniel set her gently on the bed. "You’ll be fine. I’ll call a doctor." Then, his glare locked onto Evelyn. "Apologize."

Victoria Sinclair—heiress to the Sinclair fortune, adored by her three overprotective brothers. If they found out Evelyn had touched her, they’d ruin her.

The irony stung. Their names were so similar—Evelyn and Victoria—yet Nathaniel had never once said hers right.

Even that night, tangled in sheets, he’d whispered Victoria’s name. She’d thought it was just his usual mispronunciation. How foolish.

She’d always been a placeholder.

The ache in her chest sharpened into numbness. "Apologize?" she echoed.

"You attacked her. Even a child knows better. And her hands—do you have any idea what they’re worth?" Nathaniel snarled.

Of course. A single strand of Victoria’s hair mattered more than Evelyn’s entire existence. She was less than dirt beneath their shoes.

Three years of silence. Three years of swallowing every insult. No more.

"I don’t care if you believe me," Evelyn said, lifting her chin. "She started it."

Gregory, lingering in the doorway, cleared his throat. "Mr. Whitmore, I saw everything. Mrs. Whitmore pushed Ms. Sinclair."

Nathaniel’s jaw clenched. "Apologize. Now."

"What if I refuse?"

Surprise flickered in his eyes. Since when did obedient, meek Evelyn talk back?

His voice dropped to a threat. "Think carefully. That uncle of yours—Benjamin, wasn’t it?—still needs that private hospital bed, doesn’t he?"

Benjamin Foster, her only family, comatose after a hit-and-run. Nathaniel had paid for his care—and now wielded it like a weapon.

This was her limit.

Tears burned, but Evelyn refused to let them fall. She looked at Victoria, lounging on her bed beneath her wedding portrait, the picture of smug triumph.

Reality crashed down.

Her voice cracked. "I’m sorry."