Chapter 491

A spark of amusement flickered in Nathan's dark eyes.

Then, his expression dimmed. "Never mind."

Theodore "Teddy" Winslow smirked knowingly. "Retreating to advance—classic strategy."

He had to play this carefully.

Evelyn Sinclair pressed the ice pack harder against Nathan's forehead, her brows furrowed.

"It's just a minor fever. Stop being dramatic and wait for the doctor." Nathan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"That's all?"

Evelyn nodded curtly.

"Done. Didn't lay a finger on you." She remembered his aversion to being touched all too well. Nathan exhaled sharply and closed his eyes, swallowing his frustration.

The sudden ring of Evelyn's phone sliced through the tension. Nathan's gaze darted to the screen—Preston Sinclair. His chest constricted.

"Who's calling at this hour?" The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. Jealousy coiled hot and vicious in his gut.

Evelyn barely glanced at him. "Business." She owed him no explanations.

She stood, stepping into the hallway. Nathan watched her go, his fingers digging into the sheets. The urge to follow was unbearable. Silently, he moved to the doorway, straining to listen.

Evelyn answered, her voice softening. "Oliver, sweetheart—"

The words were a knife to Nathan's ribs.

"—Yes, I miss you too, darling." Her affectionate murmur was a stark contrast to the ice in her tone moments ago. Nathan's hands clenched at his sides.

When she reentered, Nathan was blocking her path, his silk pajamas disheveled. The black fabric made his pallor more pronounced, his eyes burning with a dangerous mix of hurt and fury.

Evelyn froze. "You—"

Nathan cut her off, his voice rough. "It's just business with him, right?" His restraint was fraying, the edges of his vision tinged red. He needed to hear her say it—needed and dreaded it in equal measure.

Evelyn studied him for a heartbeat too long. Then her gaze dropped—to his legs.

Standing. Without his cane.

The realization hit like a thunderclap.

No relapse. No fever-induced weakness. Just another lie.

A sharp bark drew her attention—Leo, their husky, was happily gnawing Nathan's abandoned cane on the balcony, oblivious to the storm between them.

All pity evaporated. Rage took its place.

"Nathan Blackwood," she hissed, "you lying bastard."

Her voice was arctic. "Who said anything about pretending? We're making it real."

Nathan's pupils dilated. The raw pain in his eyes should have gutted her. It didn't.

Not when his deception was laid bare.

"Don't ruin my evening," she spat, turning on her heel. One more second here, and she might actually break his other leg.

Nathan moved faster than she anticipated. His hands seized her shoulders, pinning her against the wall.

His lips trembled, but his touch was featherlight as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—gentling her like a skittish animal.

"Don't go," he murmured, voice fraying. "I'm still sick. Still need you." The plea was velvet-wrapped steel, his bloodshot eyes betraying the storm beneath.

His fingers shook against her skin.

Begging.

Falling apart.