Chapter 586

Evelyn ran her fingers through the boy's golden curls, her lips curving into a smile. "That's right. You're amazing, Oliver!"

Vivian Lockwood approached them, her designer heels clicking against the marble floor. "Ms. Sinclair, you know this child?"

Evelyn's smile didn't waver. "Yes, he's the son of a dear friend. Children speak without filters—please don't take offense, Ms. Lockwood."

"Of course not."

Tristan Whitmore stepped forward, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled. Desperation clung to him like a second skin.

"Darling—"

"Mr. Whitmore," Vivian cut in sharply, "you will address me as Ms. Lockwood from now on. I believe I've made myself perfectly clear."

Tristan's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. He scrambled for words. "I'll give you anything. If you're angry about your father's company, I'll rebuild it—"

Vivian's patience snapped. She didn't bother masking her disdain. "Young Master Whitmore, I used the money you spent chasing me to pay off your ex-girlfriends. They came surprisingly cheap."

A cold laugh escaped her—though whether she was mocking him or herself, no one could tell. Then, with practiced politeness, she turned to Evelyn. "My apologies for this spectacle, Ms. Sinclair. Goodbye."

Evelyn arched a brow. "Goodbye."

This version of Vivian was nothing like she'd imagined. Evelyn found herself unexpectedly impressed.

Tristan lunged forward, but the Whitmore family guards intercepted him.

"Enough!" his father barked. "You've humiliated us enough for one night. Must you dig the grave deeper?"

Tristan fought like a man possessed, his eyes wild.

Nathan Blackwood observed the scene with icy detachment. "Pathetic."

What infuriated him more was his own undeserved collateral damage. Tristan's mistakes had somehow splashed onto him, earning him equal scorn.

But with Evelyn present, Nathan couldn't make a scene.

"Let's go. I'll take you home."

He seized her wrist, pulling her toward the exit without room for protest. Evelyn glanced back, searching for her ever-reliable brother, Lucas.

Instead, she found him cornering Natalie Beaumont, whispering words too low to hear.

Evelyn cursed under her breath. "Men are utterly useless."

Little Oliver scrambled after them on short legs, terrified of being left behind.

Nathan fantasized about tossing the boy out the window—but alas, laws existed.

He watched, seething, as the child clung to Evelyn like a limpet. Those big blue eyes gleamed with mischief, far too clever for a child his age.

Nathan wondered if repressed rage could cause organ damage.

Fortunately, the driver swiftly scooped Oliver into the front seat, creating a private partition between them.

Nathan shot the man an approving look. This driver deserved a raise.

Evelyn sat stiffly, texting Bennett.

Nathan studied her profile, tension coiling in his gut. That familiar dread—the fear of her next words slicing him open—tightened his chest.

"Have dinner with me."

He needed to warn her about Vivian.

Evelyn didn't look up. "Can't. My father's expecting me."

Nathan exhaled sharply, forcing down the night's frustrations. "Fine. Next time, sweetheart."

Evelyn froze. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you ill again?"

Nathan met her gaze. "Terminally lovesick."

"Go to hell."

Nathan grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing. Being insulted by her was perversely comforting.

Truly, he was beyond redemption.