Chapter 119

Alexander Hamilton leaned back on the sofa, fingers digging deep into his hair.

His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy.

Evelyn Carter stood by the window, gazing at the streetlights in the night.

"You should go," she said softly.

The kettle in the kitchen let out a sharp whistle.

She poured a cup of hot water and placed it on the coffee table.

The glass made a crisp sound as it touched the surface.

Alexander slowly opened his eyes and reached for the cup.

"How is Aunt Margaret doing lately?"

"Auntie Marry says she's stabilized."

"You haven't visited her?"

His fingers tightened around the cup. "I don't dare."

"She's your mother."

"Exactly why I don't dare." He gave a bitter smile. "Every time I go to the hospital, Annabelle follows and causes a scene. The doctors say my mother needs rest more than anything."

Evelyn turned, the moonlight outlining her profile.

"She's afraid of losing you."

"She doesn't understand what trust means," Alexander said hoarsely.

Silence filled the room.

"I went to a baby's full moon celebration today," he said suddenly.

Evelyn's fingertips trembled slightly.

"It was a beautiful little girl, dressed in a pink dress." Alexander's gaze softened. "She only wanted me to hold her—wouldn't let anyone else near."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"She was so small in my arms, so light, like a feather."

Evelyn clenched the curtains tightly.

"She smiled at me, grabbing my tie with her tiny hands." His voice began to shake. "If our child had—"

"Stop!" Evelyn cut him off sharply.

Alexander looked up, his eyes bloodshot.

"Where did she—"

"Medical waste disposal," Evelyn said quickly. "Like all other miscarried fetuses."

Alexander's face turned deathly pale.

"You should go." She turned her back to him. "I don't want to move again."

"She won't come back."

Evelyn spun around. "What do you mean?"

"I hit her." His voice was icy. "She nearly killed that baby."

Evelyn stared at him in shock.

"You actually laid hands on her?"

"She deserved it." Alexander stood, his shadow stretching across half the living room. "That child was only a month old."