Chapter 23

The golden afternoon light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Evelyn Sinclair's penthouse, casting long shadows across the marble floors. She stood frozen in the doorway, her manicured fingers tightening around the designer handbag as her emerald eyes locked onto the scene before her.

Nathan Blackwood sat casually on her cream-colored sofa, his muscular frame dwarfing the delicate furniture. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed dangerously with the faint aroma of her jasmine candles. His storm-gray eyes held an intensity that made her pulse quicken against her will.

"You're late," he remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass. The ice cubes clinked like tiny warning bells.

Evelyn's assistant Lillian Graves hovered nervously behind her. "Mr. Blackwood insisted on waiting inside. I tried to—"

"It's fine, Lillian," Evelyn interrupted, stepping forward with forced composure. The click of her stilettos echoed through the tense silence. "What do you want, Nathan? I have a photoshoot in two hours."

Nathan set down his drink with deliberate slowness. "We need to talk about what happened in Monte Carlo."

Her breath hitched. That weekend had been a mistake—too much champagne, the moonlight on the Mediterranean, the way his hands had felt tracing the scar along her ribcage...

"I remember signing an NDA," she said coolly, perching on the armchair opposite him. "Unless you're here to renegotiate terms?"

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "Always the businesswoman. But this isn't about contracts, Evelyn." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "It's about why you ran."

The air between them crackled with unspoken words. Outside, Manhattan buzzed indifferently—honking cabs, shouting pedestrians, the relentless heartbeat of the city that never noticed personal dramas.

Evelyn's phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Probably Preston Whitmore, wondering where his lead actress was for the Vanity Fair spread. She ignored it.

"I didn't run," she lied smoothly. "The shoot in Paris was moved up. You know how Donovan Sharpe is about schedules."

Nathan's gaze dropped to her left hand, where her thumb was unconsciously rubbing the spot where her Cartier watch usually sat—a tell she'd had since drama school. His eyes darkened with recognition.

"Liar," he murmured, almost fondly. Then louder: "You're afraid."

Evelyn shot to her feet. "Of what? You?" Her laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Please. I've dealt with worse than a Blackwood heir with daddy issues."

The insult hung between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. Nathan's expression didn't change, but she saw the muscle jump in his jaw.

Then, with calculated calm, he stood and closed the distance between them in three strides. Evelyn refused to retreat, even when his heat surrounded her, even when his breath ghosted over her lips as he whispered:

"Then why won't you look me in the eye when you say that?"

Her traitorous gaze flicked up—and instantly regretted it. The raw hunger in his eyes stole the breath from her lungs. The Monte Carlo memories came flooding back: tangled sheets, whispered promises, the way he'd said her name like a prayer...

The intercom buzzed, shattering the moment. "Ms. Sinclair? Your car is here."

Nathan stepped back, his mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Duty calls."

Evelyn smoothed her dress with trembling hands. "This conversation isn't over."

"Oh, it's just beginning," he promised, retrieving his suit jacket from the back of the sofa. At the door, he paused. "By the way, I bought the film rights to 'Midnight Whispers.' Thought you'd want to know before the trades announce it tomorrow."

Her blood ran cold. That book—her mother's story, the scandal that had destroyed their family. "You wouldn't dare."

Nathan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Watch me."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Evelyn's knees finally gave out. She collapsed onto the sofa, Nathan's un whiskey staring accusingly at her from the coffee table.

Lillian rushed forward. "Should I cancel the shoot? You look—"

"Like hell, I know." Evelyn drained the glass in one burning swallow. "No cancellations. And Lillian?" She met her assistant's worried gaze. "Find out everything about this 'Midnight Whispers' deal. Now."

Because Nathan Blackwood had just declared war—and Evelyn Sinclair never lost a fight.

The weight of the world pressed down on Evelyn Sinclair's shoulders as she stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway of Nathan Blackwood's penthouse. Her fingers trembled around the edge of the divorce papers she had just signed, the ink still fresh, the finality of it all carving a hollow ache in her chest.

She had fought so hard. Loved so fiercely.

And yet, here she was—alone.

The sound of heels clicking against marble snapped her attention toward the foyer. Victoria Hayes, Nathan’s ever-efficient secretary, stepped into view, her crimson lips curled in a smirk that made Evelyn’s stomach twist.

"Still here, Evelyn?" Victoria purred, her manicured fingers tapping against her tablet. "Nathan’s already left for the gala. I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself by lingering where you’re no longer wanted."

Evelyn’s nails dug into her palms, but she refused to rise to the bait. Not again. Not when every ounce of her energy was spent just keeping herself upright.

"I’m leaving," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

But as she turned toward the elevator, a sharp pain lanced through her abdomen, so sudden and intense that she gasped, her knees buckling. She barely registered the cold floor against her skin before darkness swallowed her whole.

Nathan Blackwood had spent the last hour drowning in whiskey, the burn in his throat doing nothing to dull the gnawing guilt in his gut. The gala was in full swing around him—champagne flutes clinking, laughter ringing—but all he could see was Evelyn’s shattered expression when he’d walked away from her that morning.

"Mr. Blackwood?" Marcus Donovan, his brother Julian’s agent, appeared at his side, frowning. "You look like hell."

Nathan didn’t answer. His phone buzzed—once, twice—before he finally glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number: You might want to get to the hospital. Evelyn collapsed. She’s pregnant.

The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor.

And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.

"You insolent brat! How dare you speak like that? Have you lost your mind?" Edward roared, his face turning crimson with rage. He lunged forward, hand raised to strike Celeste.

But Celeste moved with feline grace, sidestepping just in time. The momentum sent Edward staggering forward, nearly toppling over.

When he finally regained his balance, his finger trembled as he pointed at her. "She's your sister! How could you accuse Isabelle of such things?" Penelope shrieked, clutching Isabelle protectively as if Celeste were some wild animal about to pounce.

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. The favoritism was so blatant it was almost comical. When those scandalous photos first surfaced, Edward and Penelope had looked at Celeste with nothing but contempt, silently blaming her for bringing shame upon the family. But now that the truth was out—that it was Isabelle in those compromising positions—their reaction? Well, that was parental love for you. If not for their identical faces, one might seriously question if Celeste was even their biological daughter.

Evelyn's inner monologue made the Quirks exchange knowing glances. The disparity in how Edward and Penelope treated their daughters was staggering—one coddled like a precious gem, the other discarded like trash. What kind of parents behaved this way?

Celeste had long grown numb to their theatrics. She simply watched, her expression unreadable, as her parents spiraled into hysterics.

Look at her. She's used to this. It was clear this wasn’t the first time Edward and Penelope had acted so irrationally, as if they’d reserved all their brain cells exclusively for Isabelle’s benefit. Pathetic. The favored child never suffers—it’s always the overlooked one who gets hurt.

Nathan found himself lost in thought, memories resurfacing.

Time and time again, the same scene played out.

Celeste, standing rigidly to the side, her face an icy mask. Isabelle, tears streaming down her cheeks, playing the victim to perfection. Edward and Penelope shielding Isabelle while hurling accusations at Celeste—cruel, heartless, wicked.

Not once had they ever taken Celeste’s side.

How could someone who was constantly favored ever learn to compromise?

But in the past, Nathan had simply assumed Celeste resented Isabelle out of jealousy. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Everything he thought he knew suddenly felt like a lie.

Celeste’s gaze locked onto Isabelle, her voice sharp as a blade. "Isabelle, who exactly did you say that person was?"

Isabelle shrank back, trembling like a frightened doe as she buried herself deeper into Penelope’s embrace. Despite her fragile act, her voice was steady. "Celeste, what are you even talking about?"

"Just as I thought," Celeste said with a bitter laugh. "You’re beyond redemption."

Edward and Penelope looked ready to combust. Their precious daughter being spoken to like this? Unthinkable! They gasped for air between furious curses, lamenting Celeste’s defiance.

Vincent stormed forward, his expression thunderous. "Celeste," he spat, "you really don’t know when to quit, do you? Fine. Let’s see how you weasel your way out of this."

With a cold smirk, he tapped his phone once more.

The intimate photo on the screen dissolved, replaced by a series of hospital records. Image after image flashed by until finally, an abortion consent form filled the screen.

Name: Isabelle Cowell

"You carried my child," Vincent hissed, "and then you killed it behind my back. You owe me, Celeste. And I won’t let you escape this time."

Celeste’s eyes widened in shock, her gaze snapping toward Isabelle.

Isabelle was shaking violently, her face pale with fear—but only for a second. Just as quickly, she schooled her features back into that practiced innocence.

Julian’s face had gone deathly pale. His entire world tilted on its axis as he stared at that damning document.

Finally. The truth was out.

Evelyn nearly laughed aloud.

The Quirks finally understood—this was the scandal Evelyn had hinted at. And it was devastating. Now, it was just a matter of who had the guts to verify it.

The murmurs in the room grew louder, drowning out Isabelle’s brief moment of panic.

"Oh, I remember her now," someone whispered. "She was a senior at my college. There were always rumors about her... complicated love life. There was even a photo circulating of her at a clinic."

The crowd erupted.

"So it’s true then? And she still won’t admit it?"

"Honestly, what’s so bad about marrying Vincent? They were practically having a child together!"

"Didn't you claim she slept around? There could be multiple men involved!"

Vincent Holloway smirked victoriously, reaching out to grab Celeste's wrist.

Celeste stepped back, turning to face the man who called himself her junior. "You should know," she said coolly, "if those posts were spreading lies, our university forum would’ve deleted them. Why didn’t you mention that? Those posts vanished long ago—and the people who posted them were silenced."

Vincent choked on his words, shame forcing his gaze downward.

Pathetic. Evelyn Sinclair’s thoughts dripped with disdain. He pursued you, got rejected, and now he’s trying to ruin you. Probably the one fueling those rumors too. What a joke.

The Blackwoods exchanged glances, mentally noting which family this disgrace belonged to. Someone like him should be blacklisted.

Julian Blackwood’s sharp eyes locked onto Vincent’s face, memorizing every detail. A dangerous glint flashed in his gaze.

Vincent shivered, suddenly feeling like prey.

Celeste had no patience left. "I’ll say it again. Prove it was me. With an identical twin, impersonation isn’t exactly hard, is it?"

"You’re still denying it?" Vincent laughed bitterly, frustration boiling over.

"You got pregnant, committed that vile act, and framed your own sister?" Edward Cowell’s voice trembled with rage.

"Disgraceful!" Penelope Cowell clutched her chest. "How did I raise such a shameless daughter? Celeste, if you keep this up, we’ll disown you!"

As if that threat would reel her in.

Celeste scoffed. "I stopped wanting to be your daughter years ago."

The words froze Edward and Penelope mid-breath.

"...What did you just say?"

Bitterness seeped into Celeste’s voice. "What’s so great about being your daughter? You couldn’t even recognize me in a photo. Why act shocked? Haven’t you ever questioned it? Others might not know, but she’s spent her whole life stealing my name. One more lie shouldn’t surprise you."

The Cowells stiffened, as if her words had yanked buried memories to the surface. Their expressions twisted uncomfortably.

Panicked, they scrambled to divert the conversation.

Typical. Evelyn’s mental eye-roll was almost audible. They’re terrified she’ll expose the truth.

Every time the topic arose, the Cowells had never denied Isabelle’s false claims.

Celeste’s laugh was hollow. "Remember when you told me not to correct the media? ‘It’s filial piety,’ you said. ‘Chasing fame brings chaos.’" Her voice turned razor-sharp. "Was that really your belief? Or did you just want my hard work to polish her reputation? You couldn’t bear her suffering—but you had no problem sacrificing me for her ‘good name.’"

Edward flushed crimson. "Nonsense! It was for your grandmother! If Isabelle were healthier, she would’ve done it! You only stepped in because you were stronger!"

Holy hell. Evelyn’s nails dug into her palm. That’s the most twisted logic I’ve ever heard.

The Blackwoods and onlookers exchanged stunned glances. For the first time, the Cowells’ blatant favoritism was laid bare—and the crowd’s sympathy shifted toward Evelyn’s perspective.

"Ridiculous," Celeste whispered. "I did the work. I didn’t need praise. But I damn well deserved credit—not to have it stolen."

Yet Edward and Penelope remained stubborn, convinced that Celeste was simply being difficult.

Celeste pressed on, her voice steady. "So you admit Isabelle took my identity that day?"

The room fell silent as everyone snapped back to reality. Could this really be considered an old transgression?

Edward and Penelope quickly defended, "Isabelle never meant to do that! It was just an accident—"

"Then what about the hit-and-run?" Celeste cut in sharply. "She struck a child, leaving him permanently injured. Even when the family agreed to settle, she was terrified it would ruin her reputation before her big break. So during the investigation, she pretended to be me. Used my name." Her voice grew colder. "Afterward, she played the devastated victim, making me feel sorry for her—convincing me she only lied out of fear. But now I see it was all an act. And none of you spoke up. You just told me to keep quiet, promised you'd handle the child's situation. But in the end, you all forgot. Even Isabelle forgot."

A ripple of shock spread through the crowd. This had been one of the scandals that tarnished Celeste's name. Had she really been the scapegoat all along?

Julian's face darkened instantly.

That incident had been the moment he'd publicly condemned Celeste. The accident itself might have been unintentional, but abandoning the victim afterward? That spoke of character.

It was the turning point—when he'd started despising her.

Back then, he remembered Celeste looking like she wanted to say something, but Isabelle had pulled him away. The last thing he'd seen was the glimmer of unshed tears in Celeste's eyes.

Now, his jaw clenched. Had that... also been a lie?

"No—Celeste, why would you—?" Isabelle finally broke, sobbing uncontrollably.

Seeing her distress, Edward and Penelope immediately turned on Celeste, desperate to silence her.

But Celeste didn't flinch. "Do I need to show proof? That day, I was at an academic conference."

The couple froze, stunned by Celeste's defiance.

Isabelle hadn't expected this. Celeste had always backed down before, no matter how much she was pushed. Because for Celeste, their parents' approval and her sister's dependence had meant everything.

But now? It was like she'd cut all ties. Was she really willing to burn everything down just to expose the truth?

Before Isabelle could panic further, Celeste exhaled deeply—as if shedding the last of the chains that had bound her for years.

The air thickened with tension.

This wasn't just a revelation.

It was war.

The grand ballroom fell into stunned silence as Celeste's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "I was the one who organized the Cowell Foundation's relief efforts after the hurricane," she declared, her emerald eyes blazing. "Yet every donation receipt bore your name, Isabelle."

A gasp rippled through the crowd as she continued, her words precise as surgical incisions. "That scholarship you supposedly won at Juilliard? The audition you faked an injury to avoid? That was my performance they heard—my hands that played Chopin's Ballade No.1 when yours were trembling."

Isabelle's porcelain cheeks glistened with crocodile tears, but Celeste wasn't . "When you crashed the Maserati after that gala, who do you think the board blamed? The forged contracts with Blackwood Enterprises—signed in my handwriting but never by my hand." She gestured to the family portrait above the mantel, where their grandfather's stern gaze seemed to judge them all. "They revoked my inheritance rights over losses I didn't cause."

The revelation hit like thunder. Several society matrons clutched their pearls, remembering the scandalous rumors about Celeste's "erratic behavior" at Yale—now clearly Isabelle's handiwork.

"You've stolen my achievements and saddled me with your disasters." Celeste's voice cracked as she ripped the diamond pendant from her neck—their grandmother's matching heirloom, now tarnished by deceit. "I won't play the villain in your story anymore."

Isabelle reached out with trembling fingers. "Sister, please—"

"No." Celeste stepped back, the broken chain pooling at her feet like liquid silver. "The curtain's falling on your performance, Isabelle. This is one standing ovation you'll take alone."