Chapter 395

The Highland Estates mansion stood elegantly with its two-story structure, flooded with natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows.

A discreet elevator connected both levels, ensuring Nathan Blackwood's wheelchair access remained effortless throughout the property.

Evelyn Sinclair ascended the stairs and paused in the doorway of her former bedroom.

Everything remained frozen in time—the ivory silk bedding, the crystal perfume bottles on the vanity, even the novel left splayed on the nightstand.

Memories crashed over her like icy waves.

Her chest constricted painfully, as if an invisible hand squeezed her ribs with cruel precision.

She used to perch on that balcony chaise for hours, foolishly hoping to spot Nathan's black Maybach turning through the wrought iron gates below.

He never came.

Not once in three years.

The room smelled faintly of the jasmine perfume she'd favored back then—now the scent made her nauseous.

Evelyn's lips twisted into a humorless smile as she grabbed a wastebasket. With one sweeping motion, she cleared the vanity of all trinkets, listening to them clatter against the metal interior.

The walk-in closet revealed racks of designer clothing with tags still attached, shelves of Italian leather shoes in her exact size, and a glass case displaying diamond jewelry worth more than some houses.

She shut the door without touching anything.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Beatrice, the housemaid, stood wringing her hands near the intimidating figure of Marcus—Evelyn's personal bodyguard.

"Ms. Sinclair," Beatrice stammered, "Mr. Blackwood requests your presence for dinner."

Evelyn checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "Tell him I'll be down shortly."

The maid scurried away as Evelyn descended the grand staircase, her stiletto heels clicking like a metronome against the marble steps.

Golden hour painted the living room in warm hues, the sheer drapes fluttering like ghosts against the evening breeze.

Nathan sat at the dining table, closing his laptop as she approached. A cashmere throw draped over his legs did nothing to diminish the powerful lines of his broad shoulders.

"Hungry?" His voice was deep velvet.

In the kitchen, Beatrice whispered loudly enough to be heard, "Chef prepared all your favorites, Ms. Sinclair. Lobster thermidor, truffle risotto, that chocolate soufflé you—"

"I don't eat dinner." Evelyn settled into her chair opposite Nathan. "But do ensure Marcus gets a proper meal."

Nathan's jaw tightened as he noticed the hulking bodyguard positioning himself behind Evelyn's chair. Marcus stood motionless, his alert gaze continuously scanning the room despite his neutral expression.

"Your watchdog can take the night off," Nathan said smoothly. "You're perfectly safe here."

Evelyn flipped open a fashion magazine with deliberate disinterest. "Marcus stays. Consider him part of the decor if his presence bothers you."

A muscle ticked in Nathan's cheek. He reached for his wineglass, the crystal catching the candlelight. "Since you're here to care for me," he murmured, lips curling at the edges, "why don't you demonstrate by feeding me?"

His challenge hung in the air between them, thick as the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen.

Evelyn slowly lowered her magazine.

Across the table, Nathan's storm-gray eyes gleamed with something dangerous.

And for the first time since her return, Evelyn felt the faintest spark of something other than resentment.

It terrified her.