Chapter 742
The night was pitch black, with streams of headlights cutting through the darkness below.
This winter bit harder than most, the wind slicing through layers like a knife.
Evelyn Sinclair's stomach growled.
Across the street, she spotted someone devouring a hot dog in the 24-hour convenience store. The sight made her mouth water.
It had been years since she'd tasted one.
Suddenly, the five-star hotel cuisine lost all appeal. She needed that hot dog.
Grabbing her coat and phone, Evelyn dashed downstairs in casual sweats.
The moment she entered the store, all thoughts of her strict diet vanished. The aroma of grilled meat and toasted buns overwhelmed her senses. She perched by the floor-to-ceiling window, demolishing the hot dog in record time.
Outside, the traffic gradually thinned as midnight approached.
Streetlights cast an eerie glow through the frosty air. Evelyn stood, tossing her wrapper away.
The pedestrian signal turned red just as she reached the crosswalk.
She paused. The world seemed unnaturally quiet.
Her phone vibrated violently. Jonathan Reeves' name flashed on screen. She answered with a frown. "Mr. Reeves—"
"Ms. Sinclair, the police just reviewed all surveillance footage from the construction site. They found something—a temporary worker handling crane transportation. This man appears days before each incident, then vanishes—"
Evelyn's breath hitched. This confirmed her suspicions—no accidents, only sabotage.
The walk signal turned green.
"Any ID on him?" She stepped onto the crosswalk. "If he's local—"
A sudden engine roar split the night.
Evelyn whirled toward the sound. Blinding headlights temporarily blinded her.
"—facial scar makes him easily identifiable," Jonathan continued. "Police believe he's one of Lawrence Sinclair's hired—"
The world tilted.
A massive truck barreled toward her at impossible speed.
Yet in that split second, she saw him clearly—the driver's jagged scar.
The horn blared. Wind rushed past. Time seemed to stop.
Impact came.
Evelyn's heart stuttered. Every muscle locked, but her reflexes—honed by years of danger—kicked in a millisecond faster than most.
She twisted backward.
The truck's vortex of wind and exhaust fumes enveloped her. Her face drained of color.
Then—salvation.
A strong hand yanked her arm backward with bruising force. The grip—warm, steady, unshakable—wrenched her from death's path. Cold sweat drenched her clothes.
The truck roared past. Evelyn collapsed, hearing something snap. White-hot pain lanced through her body.
No Nathan Blackwood to save her this time.
Agony exploded—first numbness, then fire in her veins.
Her vision darkened. The world muted.
She couldn't speak, only stare at the starless sky.
The man lifted her gently. His voice tickled her memory.
Preston Sinclair. "Evelyn! Stay awake! Hospital—now!" The usually composed Wall Street tycoon sounded frantic. His polished mask had shattered, revealing raw terror as he cradled her broken form.