Chapter 333

The iron gates of Sterling Manor loomed in the darkness. Tristan Whitmore sat in his car, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel before he finally dialed Evelyn Sinclair’s number.

The call connected after several rings. Evelyn’s voice was thick with sleep, sharp with irritation. "Who the hell is this?"

Tristan exhaled sharply. "It’s me. Tristan Whitmore."

A pause. Then, reluctantly, "What do you want?"

"Nathan’s drunk out of his mind, and he’s currently sprawled in front of your gates. Come get him before he freezes to death."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, cold and clipped, "Take him and get the hell away from my house."

Tristan gritted his teeth. "We’re already here. If you don’t come out, I’m leaving him right where he is. Your problem now."

He hung up before she could argue, exhaling sharply. Dealing with Evelyn these days required nerves of steel.

Without hesitation, he hauled Nathan out of the passenger seat and dumped him unceremoniously in the middle of the driveway.

"This is on you, man," Tristan muttered, patting Nathan’s shoulder before retreating to his car.

He didn’t look back as he drove away.

Evelyn stared at her phone, Tristan’s words sinking in.

Already here.

She threw off the covers and strode to the balcony, shivering as the cold night air hit her skin. Below, a car’s taillights disappeared down the winding driveway.

"Unbelievable," she hissed under her breath.

Her father and brothers were asleep. She slipped on a robe and padded downstairs, her bare feet silent against the marble floors.

The front door creaked as she stepped outside.

Nathan Blackwood sat slumped against the gate, his usually immaculate appearance in ruins—tie loose, hair disheveled, the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to him.

Evelyn crossed her arms. "Nathan Blackwood," she said, voice like ice. "Are you auditioning for a tragic hero role now?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression raw.

"Evelyn," he rasped.

Her breath caught despite herself.

"I’m sorry," he said, voice breaking. "If you just—give me one more chance—"

Her chest tightened, an old, familiar ache flaring to life.

Then, just as quickly, she smothered it.

Before she could speak, Nathan’s head dropped forward, his body going limp.

Unconscious.

Evelyn exhaled sharply, her fingers curling into fists.

That damned dinner had dredged up too many memories—wounds she’d thought long scarred over, now raw and bleeding again.

Forgiveness? She’d tried. Over and over.

But some things couldn’t be undone.

She had made peace with her own foolish heart long ago. What she wouldn’t do was reopen old wounds for his drunken regret.

Yet here he was, pathetic and broken at her doorstep.

Three years ago, this would have shattered her. Three years ago, she might have wept at the sight of him like this.

Now?

She wiped away the single traitorous tear that escaped.

"We’re even," she whispered. "Let’s just pretend we never knew each other."

Nathan didn’t move.

She turned away.

Then, on impulse, she spun back and kicked him square in the ribs.

"That’s for Europe," she muttered.

Without another glance, she marched back inside and slammed the door behind her.

Leaning against it, she pulled out her phone and dialed Tristan.

Straight to voicemail.

"Coward," she hissed.

Next, she called Gregory Thornton.

He answered on the second ring.

"It’s Evelyn Sinclair," she said, voice clipped. "Nathan Blackwood is passed out drunk at my gates. Either come get him, or I’m calling the police."

She hung up before he could reply.

Twenty minutes later, from her bedroom window, she watched Gregory’s car pull up, load Nathan inside, and disappear into the night.

She drew the curtains closed.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.