Chapter 767

The door swung open as Preston Sinclair stepped into the hospital room, his lips curling into that signature warm smile. "There's an emergency board meeting," he said casually, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I need to head out."

Evelyn Sinclair nodded, waving at little Oliver Sinclair through the video call before handing the device back to Preston. As the screen went dark, she caught a glimpse of his wallpaper—a breathtaking shot of cloudless azure skies.

Typical Preston. No scantily clad models, no pretentious art. Just pure, unfiltered simplicity.

He pocketed his phone, eyes softening as they lingered on her. "Text me your cravings for tomorrow's visit," he offered, already mentally cataloging her favorite pastries.

Evelyn chuckled. "Don't tempt me. I'll empty Manhattan's bakeries."

His fingers twitched—an aborted motion to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. Instead, he spun on his heel and strode out before she could notice the longing in his gaze.

Morning light streamed through the blinds as Evelyn scrolled through urgent emails. The aroma of coffee announced Lucas Sterling's arrival before he even spoke.

"Breakfast is served, Your Highness," he teased, setting down a tray. Then he noticed her furrowed brow. "Since when do you care about tabloid trash?"

Evelyn tilted her iPad toward him. "This 'infamous investor' scandal—do we know him?"

Lucas's smirk was downright feline. "Read between the lines, sis."

She reopened the viral article, skimming past the clickbait headline: Wall Street Wolf Preys on Single Mothers!

The accuser—a self-proclaimed victim—claimed the unnamed tycoon impregnated her before vanishing with their child. Seven years later, she was demanding justice via social media.

The comment section was a bloodbath:

[Name and shame this monster!]

[Typical rich bastard using women as toys!]

[That poor baby! He probably bought off the courts!]

Attached photos showed a blurred-out man towering over the voluptuous plaintiff. Even pixelated, his broad shoulders and tailored suit screamed old money.

Evelyn's nails tapped the screen. "Where's his side of the story?"

Lucas snorted. "Since when do witch hunts need facts?" He flipped open a yogurt lid. "But keep scrolling. The punchline's priceless."

Her breath hitched at the last image—a diamond-encrusted watch glinting on the investor's wrist.

She'd recognize that Patek Philippe anywhere.

It was the same one Nathan Blackwood wore at their divorce hearing.