Chapter 743
Jonathan Reeves's voice trembled with panic. "What now? If Chairman Sterling discovers something happened to Ms. Sinclair while she was under my watch, I'm finished—"
Bennett remained composed. "Mr. Reeves, just focus on your tasks. I've already informed Chairman Sterling and Ms. Sinclair's brothers about the accident. They'll be here soon. Our priority is cooperating with the police and providing evidence."
His tone was steady, but beneath it, he fought to suppress the fear clawing at him.
The consequences if Evelyn died? Unthinkable.
It would be his greatest failure.
Evelyn gazed out the window, watching the golden sunlight filter through swaying branches.
Her mind replayed the blinding headlights, the screech of tires, the truck barreling toward her.
A shudder ran through her.
Bennett noticed the moment her eyes fluttered open. He rushed into the ward, voice thick with emotion. "Ms. Sinclair—"
She blinked, confirming she wasn’t dreaming. "Did you catch him?"
Her voice came out hoarse.
Bennett quickly handed her a glass of water with a straw.
She took a sip, clarity returning. "Yes. The covert security team stopped him. His truck crashed into a tree, and he knocked himself out. He’s in custody now—the same man from the construction site."
Bennett relayed the details methodically.
With Evelyn awake, everything he’d done had meaning.
She nodded, then hesitated. "The one who saved me... Was it Preston Sinclair?"
Bennett’s expression darkened. "Mr. Sinclair had just arrived in Sandford for business. He contacted me for your address, saying he wanted to bring you dinner. I—"
He’d sent Evelyn a text about Preston’s arrival, but after the accident, he realized it had never been read.
Evelyn glanced around. "Where is he?"
Bennett’s eyes reddened.
"Ms. Sinclair, your blood type is rare. The local blood bank didn’t have reserves. There wasn’t enough time to get supplies from New York, so... Mr. Sinclair donated his blood to you."
Evelyn’s breath hitched.
The revelation sent a tremor through her. A sharp, unexpected pang of emotion twisted in her chest.
"He gave over twice the standard amount. He’s still unconscious in another ward."
Preston shared her blood type.
The realization left her stunned.
Memories surged—Nathan Blackwood, the years she’d wasted giving her blood to Vanessa Holloway, draining herself for a man who never cared.
She knew the value of her blood type. Her father, William Sterling, had even funded a private blood bank in New York for emergencies.
Yet she’d once thrown it away, desperate for Nathan’s love.
Humiliation burned through her.
What was the difference between her past self and Preston Sinclair now?