(Evelyn's POV)
Rain still clung to my skin in fine droplets, cool against the heat that burned inside me. My lips tingled from Damien's kiss—hard, unyielding, and seared into my memory like it had marked me. The elevator doors had barely closed on Clara's expression—shock laced with betrayal—before my chest began to ache.
I had to explain.
I had to make her understand.
The moment the elevator reached the ground floor, I bolted into the lobby. Clara's figure was already disappearing beyond the glass doors, her posture rigid, her heels striking the pavement in sharp, angry beats. I called her name, voice breaking, but she didn't slow.
By the time I pushed outside into the light drizzle, she was sliding into the backseat of her car.
"Clara, please!" My palm hit the glass. "Just let me explain!"
Her gaze met mine for a fraction of a second, and I thought I saw a flicker of hurt behind the anger. But then her lips curved—not into a smile, but something that felt far colder. She shut the door with a solid, deliberate thunk.
The driver pulled away before I could even breathe.
For a heartbeat, I stood there frozen, watching the taillights dissolve into the slick street. Then panic jolted me into motion. I didn't even have my phone on me—my bag was still upstairs in Damien's penthouse—but my legs carried me to the curb where a yellow cab slowed under my frantic wave.
"Follow that black town car!" The words sounded ridiculous, like something out of an old movie, but the driver only gave a small grunt and pressed the accelerator.
The streets blurred past, rain streaking against the windows. I leaned forward, my hands twisting in the hem of Damien's blanket still clinging to my shoulders. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—dark cologne and something warmer, more dangerous. I hated that even now, my mind kept replaying the way his voice had dropped when he said my name.
When Clara had seen us.
When I'd pushed him away.
The car ride stretched into a suffocating silence. The driver didn't speak, and I didn't dare look away from the faint glow of Clara's car ahead.
Eventually, her driver turned into the long, manicured driveway of our family estate. My chest tightened. The grand white facade stood tall against the rain, the light from the windows spilling across the wet stone steps.
"Stop here," I told the cabbie, sliding a few bills toward him before stepping out into the rain again.
I didn't walk straight to the door. Instead, I slipped around to the side garden, the one with the old glass conservatory and the French doors that opened into the east hallway. From here, I could see the glow of the sitting room, where the family always entertained important guests—or, in Clara's case, conducted her more… strategic conversations.
I pressed myself against the wall just beneath the window, careful not to be seen.
Through the glass, I saw her. Clara stood in the center of the room, her hair still damp but perfectly arranged, her posture a picture of poised elegance. Across from her, our parents sat on the cream sofa, listening intently.
"…and I just think it makes sense," Clara was saying, her tone syrupy-smooth. "Mr. Vale is a man of influence, refinement. He has connections our family could only benefit from. I believe he and I would suit each other perfectly."
My nails dug into my palms. Suit each other perfectly?
"And Evelyn?" my mother asked, tilting her head slightly, her pearls catching the light.
Clara's smile sharpened just enough to be noticed if you knew her well. "Oh, Evelyn. I think Mr. Justin would be an ideal match for her. You remember Justin—one of our childhood friends? He's been fond of her for years. I ran into him recently, and he mentioned how much he still admires her. I told him I'd bring the idea to you."
I felt my stomach drop.
She wasn't just angry. She wasn't sulking. She was maneuvering.
"That's an excellent suggestion," my father said, his deep voice carrying the weight of finality. "Both matches would be advantageous for the family."
"Justin's family has been loyal to ours for generations," my mother added with a small, approving smile. "And Mr. Vale… well, he's made quite an impression in society circles lately. I imagine a marriage to either of you would be seen as a coup."
Clara laughed lightly, a sound so perfectly timed it made my skin crawl. "Then it's settled? We can arrange a formal proposal to Mr. Vale soon?"
My father gave a firm nod. "I'll make the arrangements. Clara, if he is as taken with you as you say, I imagine he'll be delighted."
I wanted to burst in right then, to shout that Damien Vale—Adrian Vale—wasn't hers to claim. That she didn't know the truth, and she was building her schemes on lies.
But my feet stayed rooted. Because if I walked in there now, I'd have to explain why I knew he wasn't Adrian Vale. And that would unravel everything.
Instead, I stood there in the rain, my heartbeat loud in my ears, watching my sister's victory take shape.
She was stealing him right out from under me—without even knowing the whole story. And my parents were helping her do it.