Chapter 1

The golden rays of the afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Evelyn Sinclair's penthouse, casting a warm glow over the sleek modern furniture. Evelyn stood by the window, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her half-empty wine glass. The city sprawled beneath her, alive with movement and possibility, yet she felt an inexplicable restlessness gnawing at her.

Her phone buzzed on the marble countertop, breaking the silence. A message from Lillian Graves, her ever-efficient assistant, flashed on the screen: "Meeting with Preston Whitmore moved to 3 PM. He insists on discussing the script changes in person."

Evelyn sighed. Preston Whitmore, the acclaimed director, was notorious for his last-minute demands. She typed a quick reply before setting the phone down. The script—her latest project—had been her obsession for months. A psychological thriller that could either cement her reputation as a rising star or send her career spiraling into obscurity.

The doorbell chimed, pulling her from her thoughts. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Frowning, she padded across the plush carpet to the intercom. "Yes?"

"Delivery for Ms. Sinclair," a muffled voice replied.

Evelyn pressed the buzzer, allowing access. Moments later, a courier handed her an elegant black box tied with a silver ribbon. No note, no return address.

Her pulse quickened as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a single red rose, its petals velvety and perfect, alongside a small, folded card. She unfolded it with careful fingers.

"The game begins. Are you ready, Evelyn?"

The handwriting was unfamiliar, the message cryptic. A prank? A fan? Or something more sinister?

Before she could dwell on it, her phone rang again—this time, an unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.

"Hello?"

A deep, smooth voice sent a shiver down her spine. "Did you like my gift?"

Evelyn's grip tightened on the phone. "Who is this?"

A low chuckle. "Let’s just say I’ve been watching you. And I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together."

The line went dead.

Evelyn stared at the phone, her breath shallow. This wasn’t just a coincidence. Someone was playing with her—and she had no idea why.

The intercom buzzed again.

"Ms. Sinclair? Your car is here for the meeting with Mr. Whitmore."

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus. Whatever this was, she wouldn’t let it derail her. Not today.

But as she stepped into the elevator, the rose still in her hand, one thought echoed in her mind:

Who the hell was watching her?

"Sign it." The deep, velvety voice cut through the silence like a blade. "After the divorce, I won’t pursue legal action. I’ll even add another two hundred million to the settlement and transfer your studio under your name. And the penthouse in the financial district—"

Evelyn Sinclair pressed a hand to her lips, stifling the laughter threatening to spill out.

Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled as she skimmed the divorce agreement, mentally counting the zeros. So many beautiful, beautiful zeros.

Across the desk, Nathan Blackwood watched her with narrowed eyes. His chiseled features were set in a cold mask, his dark gaze unreadable. He noted the way Evelyn’s shoulders trembled, the way she ducked her head as if overwhelmed.

His jaw tightened.

If only he had known what she was truly capable of, he would never have let things go this far.

To him, Evelyn was a paradox—pitiable yet infuriating. Her parents had been close friends with the Blackwoods, but tragedy struck before she turned eighteen. Out of obligation, his family took her in. And how had she repaid them? By scheming her way into his bed—and then his life.

Since then, his world had been chaos. Relentless pursuit. Unwanted attention. And now, betrayal.

Just weeks ago, she had stolen confidential company files and handed them to a competitor, costing them a crucial deal. The board demanded action.

Hence, the divorce.

"I’m being more than generous," Nathan said icily. "Don’t push your luck."

Had it not been for the memory of her parents, he wouldn’t have offered her a single cent.

He had expected resistance—tears, threats, maybe even another staged suicide attempt. But instead, Evelyn reached for the pen with trembling fingers.

Nathan exhaled. Finally. It’s over.

—

"Oh my god, YES! Freedom at last!"

Nathan froze.

That voice—Evelyn’s voice—had just echoed in his mind, bright with unrestrained glee.

His gaze snapped to her face, but all he saw was her carefully composed expression as she signed the papers.

"Two hundred million! Do you know how many luxury condos that buys? How many pretty boys I can spoil? Nathan, you absolute legend!"

Nathan’s eye twitched.

She hadn’t spoken. Yet he had heard her.

What the hell was happening?

His secretary, Victoria Hayes, stood nearby, watching Evelyn with poorly concealed disdain. "Ms. Sinclair, I hope you’ll reflect on your actions after this. Perhaps—"

Evelyn barely glanced up before scribbling her signature.

"Ugh, spare me the lecture. I didn’t even do it. But hey, if taking the blame means walking away with this payout, I’ll play the villain."

Nathan’s grip on the desk tightened.

She didn’t do it?

All evidence had pointed to her. The security logs. The witnesses. Even he had assumed it was her—because, frankly, she had a history of reckless stunts to get his attention.

But if not her… then who?

Victoria’s face paled as Nathan abruptly stood.

"Retrieve the security footage from the eleventh," he commanded, his voice like steel. "Mrs. Blackwood seems to believe she wasn’t the only one in my office that night."

Victoria’s breath hitched. "Mr. Blackwood—!"

Evelyn blinked. "Wait, what? I never said that! Just sign the damn papers!"

Nathan ignored her, his gaze locked onto Victoria’s paling face.

Something was very, very wrong.

And he was going to find out what.