Chapter 91

Alexander Hamilton's fingers trembled slightly.

The latter half of the notebook was empty, save for the jagged edges of torn pages. The uneven gaps resembled silent screams, betraying the emotional turmoil of the person who had ripped them apart.

He obsessively examined each page.

Then, under the dim lamplight, faint indentations caught his attention.

"A pencil!" He snatched up the hotel phone, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable. "Bring me a pencil immediately!"

The front desk delivered one without delay.

Holding his breath, he tilted the pencil and lightly shaded the paper. As the graphite dust spread, lines of text gradually emerged—

Row after row of "I'm sorry."

Each stroke was pressed so deeply into the page that some words had blurred from water stains, leaving wrinkled traces behind.

Alexander's chest tightened as if struck by a hammer.

He could almost see Evelyn curled up on that bed on a rainy night, her tears soaking the pillow. She had painstakingly written those apologies—perhaps begging forgiveness from the unborn child, or perhaps bidding farewell to the version of herself that had once loved him so deeply.

The phone rang abruptly.

"Mr. Hamilton," the front desk clerk's voice trembled, "Miss Carter has been looking for you..."

"Which Miss Carter?" he reflexively asked.

"Your... wife," the clerk corrected timidly. "She said she'd fire me if you didn't take the call..."

A shrill female voice suddenly cut through the line: "Where is he? Are you all deaf?!"

Alexander's gaze turned icy.

He heard Annabelle's hysterical shrieking in the background, mingled with the clerk's stifled sobs. The grating noise overlapped with the tear-stained pages before him, twisting his stomach into knots.

"Give her the phone." Every word dripped with frost.

The pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the "I'm sorry" and casting a long, dark shadow.