Chapter 793

The sweet scent of osmanthus drifted through the window as Alexander Hamilton stirred a pot of congee in the kitchen. He remembered how Andrew Anderson had loved this fragrance, so he'd planted two trees in the courtyard specifically for him.

Evelyn Carter stood at the corridor's bend, watching his careful movements as he skimmed foam from the simmering porridge. Her throat tightened. She turned away, only discovering the bouquet of dew-kissed osmanthus by the entryway the next morning.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Alexander's fingers paused on his tie. A resigned smile touched his lips. Three years had taught him to accept her polite, distant gratitude.

Pine trees whispered in the cemetery wind. Evelyn knelt before her father's memorial, fingertips tracing the polished sandalwood plaque. No matter how diligently the staff cleaned, she needed to brush away nonexistent dust herself.

"Dad, I'm doing well." Her voice was feather-light, like when she'd tiptoed around her night-shift father as a child.

Alexander retreated ten paces, his gaze snagging on a distant figure in funeral-black. Vincent Croix moved deeper into the cemetery, sunglasses obscuring half his face.

"What is it?" Evelyn followed his stare but saw only swaying shadows.

"Vincent." Alexander's jaw tightened. "He's been too quiet lately."

They melted into the pines. Vincent knelt before an unmarked tombstone, polishing the flawless marble with his sleeve. Removed sunglasses revealed bruised eye sockets.

"I dreamed of you," he whispered to the grave. "You were right. I should've seen my own heart sooner."

Evelyn clutched Alexander's sleeve. The tombstone glared back, devoid even of a name.

"Bianca was correct," she breathed. "He never understood love."

Alexander's expression darkened. Once, people had compared him to Vincent. The memory now tasted like bile.

After Vincent left, they placed white chrysanthemums before the blank stone. Evelyn's pale face reflected in its surface.

"Should we identify her?" Alexander asked.

Evelyn shook her head. "Don't alert Vincent. Men like him..." Her unfinished thought hung between them.

During the drive home, Evelyn stared out the window. Alexander tapped the steering wheel. "You're worried about me."

Not a question.

Her lashes fluttered. She didn't deny it.

The study lamp burned past midnight. When Evelyn entered with an international parcel, Alexander was mid-conference call. She silently unwrapped brown paper. A postcard fluttered from the photo album—Baby Chloe in yellow overalls, wobbling upright by a coffee table. Bianca's red nails peeked from the background.

On the last page, two interlocked hands filled the frame.

Both froze.

"Seems..." Alexander shut his laptop. "Bianca's moved on."

Evelyn traced the unfamiliar man's fingers in the photo, suddenly recalling the nameless grave. Some desperately erase traces of existence, while others never earn the right to carve their names at all.