Chapter 207

Victoria Sterling was utterly speechless at Penelope Whitmore's slap.

"I've warned you repeatedly—keep Cassandra out of your schemes." Penelope's crimson lips twisted in disgust. "Don't blame me for choosing my daughter over you!"

"Aunt Penelope, I'm sorry!" Victoria's eyes burned with resentment, yet she groveled. "I wasn't thinking clearly. It won't happen again!"

Penelope studied Victoria's desperate pleas with disdain.

If not for the fact that Victoria was her only usable pawn, Penelope would never have groomed such a treacherous woman to marry into the Blackwood family. Years of meticulous training couldn't be wasted now.

Tonight's debacle sickened her, but for the sake of her grander ambitions, she'd endure.

"Evelyn is Harrison Kingsley's daughter now," Penelope hissed, her painted nails digging into Victoria's shoulder. "Harrison is notoriously overprotective. Lay a finger on her, and you'll regret it. Your priority is reclaiming Nathan's heart and securing that marriage."

"But Nathan wants to end things!" Victoria wailed, her dreams of wealth crumbling. "Just like Uncle Leonard said—no one changes his mind once it's set!"

Penelope's eyes glinted dangerously. "It's not hopeless yet."

She leaned in, voice sharp as a blade. "Disappear. No calls, no outings, no visitors. Let the world believe you're shattered by the breakup."

Victoria hesitated. "Would that really work?"

"You can't trap a wolf without bait." Penelope smirked. "Suffer now so Nathan remembers your devotion later. That's how you'll win him back."

Meanwhile, Nathan Blackwood sat in his study, cigarette smoke curling around him like ghosts. His jaw was clenched, his gaze icy.

The memory of Evelyn's cool reminder—9 a.m. at City Hall—kept sleep at bay.

After visiting Sebastian Kingsley at the hospital, Evelyn had returned to her Crestview villa to prepare for the divorce. She'd even persuaded Harrison to return to Fairhaven, determined to face the morning alone.

Post-shower, her nightly routine complete, Evelyn devoured a bowl of fiery ramen, slipped on a silk eye mask, and slept soundly—until dawn.

Thanks to last night's drama at Reginald Blackwood's birthday gala, she'd barely rested. When her eyes finally fluttered open, the clock read 8:00 a.m.

"No! Theodore!" She bolted upright, scrambling for her tassel earrings. "Why didn't you wake me? My alarm didn't go off!"

Downstairs, Theodore Winslow—apron-clad and holding a spatula—froze at the sight of her. Barefaced, hair tousled, yet radiant. Her lips were naturally rosy, her eyes bright with irritation.

Every damn morning, she stole his breath.

"You were exhausted," he said gently. "I thought you needed the rest."

"Today of all days?" Evelyn seethed, yanking on her red skirt. "I can't be late to my own divorce! That arrogant bastard will think I'm hesitating!"

Theodore exhaled in relief. He'd worried she might be melancholy, but Evelyn spun in her festive outfit, grinning.

"Ms. Carter, at least eat something before—"

"No time! Pack it for the car!"

Today, Theodore opted for the Rolls-Royce over the Bugatti—comfort over flash.

In the backseat, Evelyn nibbled a sandwich while her fingers flew across her laptop.

"That Isabella Wang is impossible," she muttered. "Our team's reached out a dozen times, and her agent barely acknowledges Monarch Group's existence!"

Theodore tightened his grip on the wheel. "Two phone calls. No face-to-face. She's playing hardball."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "Then we play harder."