Chapter 454

Nathan Blackwood felt an icy tremor course through his veins. Once bound in matrimony, he never imagined they would stand as adversaries, blades drawn between them.

Though the gleaming butterfly knife hadn't yet broken skin, its phantom edge carved straight into his heart.

"The last person who greeted me like this was Julian Montgomery," Evelyn Carter remarked coolly, tilting her head. Her striking eyes held no warmth. "But he had the sense to keep his distance." She pressed the blade firmer against his chest. "Given your arrogance, Mr. Blackwood, do I really need to drive this home for you to understand?"

Nathan ignored the threat, his voice rough with emotion. "What does he have that I don't?"

Evelyn blinked, caught off guard.

"Alexander Whitmore," Nathan pressed, stepping closer despite the knife, his gaze burning. "What makes him worth choosing over me?" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. He didn’t care about the weapon or her lethal precision.

"Step back, Nathan!" Evelyn retreated, her grip tightening on the knife as it nicked the fabric of his suit, grazing skin. "Do you think I won’t do it?"

"Is this just revenge?" His stare pinned her, trembling. "Or do you actually love him?"

The blade bit deeper, drawing a thin line of crimson.

"Does it matter?" Evelyn scoffed. "Being with him is no different than being with you. Why the theatrics?" Her lips curled. "Besides, I gave you three years. You’re the one who threw me away."

Each word was a lash. Nathan inhaled sharply, pain radiating through his chest like wildfire. The truth was brutal, and it left him hollow.

"Evelyn!"

Her pulse jumped at the sound of Alexander’s voice. He stood a few paces away, his expression taut with worry.

"You’re still unwell," he said softly, extending a hand. "Let me take you to the hospital." His eyes, always so gentle, brimmed with concern.

Unlike Nathan’s confrontations, Alexander’s approach was different—steadfast care, unwavering protection. A silent promise: I’ll always be here.

"Fine. Let’s go." With a flick of her wrist, Evelyn sheathed the knife and strode toward Alexander without a backward glance. The choice was clear.

Nathan stood frozen, swallowed by bitter irony.

Evelyn didn’t take Alexander’s hand. "Just walk with me," she murmured.

His fingers twitched before he withdrew them. "Of course."

Side by side, they left—a picture-perfect pair—under Nathan’s shattered gaze. Only when the hallway emptied did he finally lift a hand to his wound, his expression twisting with anguish.

Evelyn, all I ever wanted was for you to see me.

Alexander rushed Evelyn to Kingsley Medical Center. By the time they arrived, pain had sapped her strength. She clutched her stomach, her face ashen.

A chronic condition, forged in the crucible of her years with Doctors Without Borders—starvation, chaos, and relentless stress.

"Mr. Whitmore! I’ll fetch a wheelchair!" the secretary stammered, panic in his eyes.

"No need." Alexander scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he marched inside.

"It hurts…" Evelyn gasped, her body limp against him.

"I know you hate being touched," he murmured, tightening his hold as if to fuse her into his very being. "But endure it just this once, Evelyn. Don’t hate me for this." His voice was velvet, coaxing.

The secretary gaped. Alexander Whitmore—known for his icy detachment—was melting for her. Anyone could see it: she’d be a fool not to choose him.

Hours later, an IV drip finally eased Evelyn’s pain. Exhausted, she drifted to sleep.

For the first time, the woman who distrusted men let her guard down—allowing Alexander to stay.

Perhaps it was their childhood bond.

Or perhaps, just this once, she felt safe.