Chapter 939

Beatrice Winslow's face drained of color. Her lips quivered under Evelyn Sinclair and Natalie Beaumont's icy glares.

"Sir, there are people here—"

Before she could finish, Evelyn snatched the phone. Arctic fury burned in her eyes as she spoke with lethal clarity.

"Donovan Pierce, get your ass over here and die."

How dare he lay hands on her best friend on her turf? The man had a death wish.

Evelyn didn't have many friends, but those she did have were ride-or-die. They'd weathered storms together, and she'd burn the world to protect them.

The phone shattered against the marble floor.

From behind the locked door, Isabella Montgomery's weak sobs cut through the air like broken glass. Each whimper stabbed Evelyn's heart.

She threw her shoulder against the reinforced door three times. No give.

Alexander Sterling signaled his bodyguard. The brute kicked at the hinges—useless. This wasn't any ordinary door. It required a key or remained impenetrable.

Evelyn's gaze snapped to Beatrice. "Key. Now."

The old woman clutched her pocket. A dead giveaway.

"I—I don't have it!" Beatrice stammered, backing away.

Natalie snarled, "Stop lying or we'll take it from your cold, wrinkled hands!"

"You wouldn't dare assault an elderly woman!"

Evelyn's laugh was colder than a winter grave. She advanced, every step measured. "Illegal confinement carries a five-year sentence. Fancy dining on prison slop at your age?"

Beatrice's face cycled through shades of gray.

Alexander nodded to his bodyguard. The man moved like lightning—twisting Beatrice's arm behind her back until bone popped. Her scream echoed off the walls.

Two other guards already lay subdued, faces mashed into the carpet.

The remaining bodyguard fished the key from Beatrice's pocket and presented it to Evelyn with a bow.

She took it, staring down at the weeping woman. "I prefer handling problems personally. Age doesn't grant you immunity from consequences. Learn some damn manners before you meet your maker."

Beatrice cradled her dislocated arm, wailing. The terror in her eyes said she'd finally understood—this elegant young socialite was far more dangerous than her designer clothes suggested.

Evelyn strode to the door, turned the key.

The sight inside shattered her.

Isabella—socialite darling, her radiant best friend—sat crumpled in a chair. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A ghost of herself.

When their eyes met, Isabella's face crumpled. Then she spotted Alexander behind Evelyn and froze.

The air turned to ice.

Alexander frowned. "Can you walk? We're leaving."

Isabella bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Then she lunged at Evelyn, collapsing into her arms with a sob.

Of all people, Alexander had come for her. After everything. How was she supposed to stay indifferent?

Evelyn's vision blurred. Isabella hung limp in her arms, legs buckling.

She shot Alexander a glare over her shoulder.

"She can't walk. She's completely drained."