Evelyn's heels clicked sharply against the polished driveway stones as she stepped out of her sleek black luxury car, a slim brown folder tucked neatly under her arm. Her sunglasses slid down just enough for the maids bowing at the entrance to catch the disinterest in her eyes. She didn't acknowledge their greetings -- only rolled her eyes, lips curling faintly as though even their existence was an inconvenience.
The Marwick Villa was bathed in late afternoon sunlight, casting golden slants across its wide arches and glass windows. Evelyn didn't slow her stride. Each step carried authority, an unspoken command that made the air tense around her. She pushed open the heavy doors without waiting for anyone to assist, her eyes already trained down the hallway.
She stopped at the study door. A man sat at the far end, broad-shouldered, in a pressed suit, his graying hair slicked neatly back. He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, his voice came sharp.
"It's polite to knock before entering a room." His eyes narrowed slightly, lingering on her as she stood in the doorway, still and silent, almost daring him. "Aren't you going to greet your future father-in-law?"
Evelyn let a grin spread slowly across her lips as she stepped forward. Instead of words, she slid a hand to the first button of her shirt and loosened it, then the second, until the upper swell of her bust spilled into view. His eyes betrayed him, flickering downward before snapping back to her face.
"Formalities," she said in a low purr, "are only meant for strangers." She leaned over the edge of his desk, her voice close enough to stir the air between them. "And you and I… aren't strangers."
The man's jaw tensed as she circled him, her perfume leaving a faint trail. When she reached his chair, she rested one manicured hand on the back of it, fingers brushing his neck lightly before curling against the leather. She bent down, eyes locking with his, close enough for him to feel her breath. He swallowed, throat tight, his control beginning to crack. He leaned forward, lips parting to claim hers --
-- but Evelyn slipped back in a deliberate tease, placing the brown folder on the table between them.
"Open it."
His brows furrowed. "What's this?"
"See for yourself."
His hands were steady, but his face betrayed the flicker of unease as he undid the clasp and spread the contents across the desk. Photos -- crisp, glossy, undeniable -- spilled out. Him. With another woman. Intimate dinners, a hotel balcony, his hand lingering too long on her waist.
"Like father, like son," Evelyn said smoothly, her grin widening. "Except you hide it so well. I have to admit… I had a hard time getting these."
The man's jaw tightened. He straightened in his chair, mask of composure snapping back on.
"What do you think would happen if i released them to the press?" She said, her grin consistent.
"This is the twenty-first century," he scoffed. "Everything can be forged."
She laughed softly, tilting her head. "Maybe. But you'd have been kicked out of the company and left a beggar before you could prove it."
His veneer cracked. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping back, and dragged her against him by the waist. Her bust pressed against his chest, her perfume flooding his senses. His lips trailed down her neck toward her chest, his voice gravelly against her skin.
"What makes you think she'll believe any of it? My wife knows about all my affairs, and yet…" he smirked darkly, "…here I am."
Evelyn's smile didn't falter. She leaned closer to his ear, her whisper slicing through his arrogance.
"You're right. Your wife has great tolerance. But I wonder…" she paused, lips brushing dangerously near his ear, "…if she'll still have that tolerance when she finds out you've been fucking her daughter. Your stepdaughter."
The man's entire body went rigid, his hand faltering on her waist.
"Sign it," she ordered.
Her tone had shifted -- sharp, commanding. No flirtation, only power.
He let her go, his face taut with fury as she smoothed her shirt back into place, buttoning it slowly with a smirk that burned him deeper than fire. From the folder, he pulled out the document, pen scratching angrily across the signature line.
Evelyn snatched it back before he could second-guess himself, slipping it into the folder while leaving the incriminating photos scattered across his desk.
"Three days," she said. "The marriage happens in three days." She leaned in, kissed him mockingly on the cheek. "I look forward to seeing more of you."
The door shut behind her before his fury exploded. Papers flew, the photos scattering like dark confetti across the study as he roared and swept the desk clean with one furious arm.
Evelyn didn't flinch as she walked down the corridor. Her heels were steady, her head held high. But as she stepped into the outer hallway, a sudden hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her into a dim corner.
Her body tensed. "Sebastian," she hissed in startle.
He pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh." His grip was firm, his eyes unreadable in the shadows.
Meanwhile, across town --
Logan's car pulled into the driveway of his beachside apartment, the hum of the engine fading as he stepped out. The night air clung with salt, the moon low over the waves. His stride was tired, distracted, until the maid hurried to meet him at the door.
"Welcome home, sir." Her voice trembled slightly. "You… you have a visitor. Miss Brielle. She's been waiting two hours for you. She's in your room."
Logan's brows drew together. "Thank you, Claire."
He strode upstairs, the tension already in his chest, pushing open the door to his room.
Brielle stood by the wall, back turned, staring at a painting. Her silhouette was calm, deliberate, the stem of a glass in her hand.
"What are you doing here?" Logan asked, his voice low, guarded.
"You know…" Brielle's tone was soft, too soft, her eyes still fixed on the painting. "I've always loved paintings." She traced a finger along the frame, still refusing to face him. "No matter how much people lie, no matter how much they try to hide the truth… paintings never lie."
Finally, she turned. Her eyes were sharp, burning.
"I'll only ask once, Logan." Her words cut through the room like glass. "Where have you been?"
"Get out of my room." His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing.
She turned back to the wall, fingers curling around the painting. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted it down from its place.
"Drop it," Logan snapped, fists tightening at his sides. His voice carried the edge of barely restrained rage.
Brielle faced him now, holding the painting firmly. Her lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "This," she said coolly, "is a painting that represents love. Tell me, Logan… did Maya paint this?"
His entire body tensed, fury radiating. "I said drop it."
Her eyes didn't waver. "I'll ask again," she said, voice steady, almost venomous.
"Where were you?"