Chapter 297

Natalie Brooks leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, absolutely. Rumor has it the poor man was so smitten—or terrified—that he fled overseas just to escape her. And what did she do? Chased him halfway across the globe!" She arched a brow, lowering her voice further. "Only returned now because he did."

Evelyn Hartley pressed her lips together, choosing silence. Gossip was a fickle beast, and she’d learned long ago that truth often got lost in the whispers. Until she had the full story, she’d reserve judgment.

Natalie opened her mouth to continue, but a rich, velvety voice cut through the chatter behind them.

"Dr. Hartley?"

Evelyn turned, startled.

Her breath hitched.

Him.

The man standing there was unmistakable—broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and eyes like molten amber. His presence was magnetic, effortless. The kind of man who commanded attention without trying.

A slow, surprised smile curved his lips as he closed the distance between them. "It is you."

Evelyn returned the smile, though her pulse betrayed her calm exterior. "How is your aunt doing?"

Recognition flickered in his gaze. She’d saved the woman months ago during a medical emergency on the street.

"Much better, thanks to you." His voice softened with gratitude. "She’s stable now—just needs regular monitoring for her heart condition."

"That’s a relief." Evelyn nodded, then added firmly, "Make sure she never leaves home without her medication. For patients like her, even one missed dose can be life-threatening."

A shadow of guilt crossed his face. "She was in a hurry that day. It won’t happen again."

Then, as if catching himself, he chuckled and extended a hand. "I’ve been rambling without introducing myself. Julian Hawthorne. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly."

"Evelyn." She clasped his hand, warmth spreading at the contact.

Julian’s gaze lingered on hers, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

Across the room, Giselle Sterling froze mid-step, her champagne flute nearly slipping from her fingers.

Her friend Daphne Whitmore beamed, oblivious. "Giselle! You were stunning on stage earlier—everyone couldn’t stop talking about you!"

Giselle didn’t respond. Her eyes were locked on Julian and the woman beside him.

"Who," she hissed, "is that?"

Daphne followed her gaze. "Oh! That’s Evelyn Hartley. She’s close with Marcus Donovan."

They watched, stunned, as Julian handed Evelyn a fresh drink, then—unthinkably—plucked a slice of decadent chocolate cake from a passing tray and offered it to her with a smile.

Daphne’s jaw dropped.

Julian Hawthorne—the man who barely spared anyone a second glance, who exuded an air of untouchable elegance—was serving someone?

Giselle’s manicured nails dug into her palm.

This wasn’t just unexpected.

It was unacceptable.