Chapter 147

The entitled brat smirked, his voice dripping with condescension as he insinuated that Evelyn Sinclair's strong demeanor was nothing but an act.

Beneath that powerful CEO facade, she was just a fragile woman.

What did a divorced heiress have to be proud of, anyway?

Evelyn's expression remained icy. A mocking smile curled at the corner of her lips.

Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Yes, I am looking down on you."

Under the chandelier's glow, Evelyn radiated effortless elegance.

She didn’t need words—just one dismissive glance shattered his fragile ego.

Who does this pathetic man think he is? He’s not even worth my breath.

Done with the conversation, Evelyn rose, intending to find Isabella.

The scene had already drawn curious gazes from the surrounding crowd.

Humiliated by her indifference, the spoiled heir's face burned with rage. He lunged forward, grabbing her wrist.

"Evelyn, you think you’re so untouchable? You’re just a woman Nathan Blackwood tossed aside! What makes you think you’re worth anything now? You should be grateful anyone even looks your way. Name your price—how much for a drink?"

Before he could finish, red wine splashed across his face.

Evelyn moved so fast he barely registered the empty glass in her hand.

Dark liquid dripped from his hair, staining his designer shirt.

She rubbed her wrist, her glare glacial.

"It’s the twenty-first century. Since your mouth is so filthy, consider that a free rinse. And you?" She scoffed, eyeing his flashy outfit. "You couldn’t afford me."

While he sputtered, Evelyn stood tall—regal, untouchable.

The contrast was stark: a furious, spoiled brat versus a queen who wouldn’t spare him a second glance.

His pride shattered. The whispers around them fueled his fury.

No one had ever dared humiliate him like this.

How dare this discarded woman act so superior?

"I’ll teach you your place, you—"

His hand swung toward her face.

But before it connected, a tall figure intercepted, yanking Evelyn back.

A brutal kick sent the man crashing to the floor, writhing in pain.

The hand gripping Evelyn’s wrist was elegant, long-fingered—artistic, even.

A familiar scent, laced with whiskey, enveloped her.

Once, that scent had made her heart race. Now, it made her recoil.

Nathan Blackwood.

He loomed over her, his presence suffocating. The moment Evelyn recognized him, she jerked free, putting distance between them.

His brows furrowed briefly—something flickered in his eyes—but it vanished just as quickly.

Tristan Whitmore rushed over, gaping at the scene.

"Anson, have you lost your damn mind?"

Anson’s family was small-time in San Francisco.

Did he really just try to lay hands on Evelyn Sinclair?