Chapter 3

##Chapter 3

"Evelyn!" Margaret's voice shot up an octave. "Remember who you're talking to!

"If Charles hadn't insisted on marrying you, someone with your background wouldn't even be allowed through our front gates!"

"What's wrong with my background?" I pushed.

"Do you really need me to say it out loud?" She looked me up and down. "Your dad died young. Your mom was a nurse at a rundown clinic.

"You grew up in a dump that hasn't seen a renovation in thirty years. You graduated from an average state school and worked as an admin assistant making three grand a month.

"Tell me, Evelyn, how does any of that make you worthy of Charles?"

My fingers curled into fists, clenching so tight they went numb.

"When Charles said he wanted to marry you, his father and I fought him tooth and nail," she continued, on a roll now. "He said he loved you. Fine. We compromised.

"But look at your behavior since the wedding. Your husband goes on a business trip, and you throw a tantrum and come crying to me. Is this how a proper wife acts?"

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I said.

"You're standing in my house demanding answers about Sophia Sinclair. What else would you call it?"

She sat back down and picked up her coffee. "I'm only going to say this once. Charles will stay in Froria for as long as he needs to.

"Sophia's injury requires long term rehab, and the specialists there are much better. Since you managed to marry into this family, you need to learn how to turn a blind eye."

"Turn a blind eye to what?"

"To the fact that he has other women," she stated, like it was a universal truth. "Men of his social standing always have a fling or two on the side.

"As long as he respects you as his wife and comes home to you, you should be grateful."

I looked at her for a long time.

Then, I bent down and placed the box of chocolates on the coffee table. "Keep the gift. I'm leaving."

I turned and walked toward the door.

"Evelyn." She called out from behind me.

I stopped, but I didn't turn around.

She said, "I suggest you play smart. Be a quiet, obedient wife, and your allowance will be deposited on time every month.

"But if you insist on making a scene and burning bridges, you'll walk away from a divorce with absolutely nothing. Our lawyers aren't just for show."

I gripped the door handle.

The cold metal seeped through my palm, settling deep into my bones.

"Thanks for the heads up," I said.

I pulled the door open and stepped out.

*****

I started digging.

That night, back at my apartment, I opened my laptop and went to the airline's website.

Checking international flight logs required passenger details. I didn't have Charles's passport number, but I knew his birthday.

After a few tries, a line of text popped up. [Charles Graham. Flight AF553. May 19th, 06:20 Departure. Destination: Pelaris, Froria. Status: Boarded.]

Under the section for accompanying passengers, there was another name.

Sophia Sinclair.

I stared at those two words for a full minute.

Then, I closed the tab and opened Google.

As soon as I typed "Sophia Sinclair", a massive wave of results flooded the screen.

The top hit was a TMZ style article from two months ago, featuring a paparazzi photo.

In the grainy image, Charles had his arm wrapped around a woman's shoulders as they strolled through a high end mall. The woman wore a white slip dress.

Her side profile was stunning, with long hair cascading down to her waist.

The headline read: [Graham Corp Heir Spotted Getting Cozy With Supermodel Sophia Sinclair. Secret Romance?]

I clicked the link.

The article explained that Sophia was the sole heiress to the Sinclair Group empire.

She was also a massive IT girl in the modeling industry. At twenty four, she had already booked several high profile luxury campaigns.

The paparazzi had caught Charles's car parked outside her penthouse for three consecutive nights.

The comments section was ruthless.

[Now this is a power couple! A billionaire obviously needs an equal match.]

[Wait, didn't Charles just marry some random nobody? Bet it was just a PR move for his parents.]

[Sophia is absolutely gorgeous. How could that Lane girl even compete?]

I scrolled down, reading comment after comment.

On the fifth page, I saw a newly posted comment, timestamped from the middle of the night.

[Breaking news! Sophia fell off the stage during a brand event and tore her knee ligaments.

[Charles rushed to the hospital and stayed by her bedside all night. True love right there.]

I closed the browser.

Right at that moment, my phone buzzed.

It wasn't Charles.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I opened it. It was a photo.

The background was a VIP hospital suite.

Sophia was sitting on the bed, her leg wrapped in a heavy brace. She looked pale, but she was smiling radiantly.

Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed. One of his hands was holding hers, and with his other hand, he was peeling an apple for her.

Beneath the photo was a single line of text.

[Ms. Lane, Charles's apple peeling skills have really gotten better. Did he ever do this for you?]

There was no signature.

But I knew exactly who sent it.

I stared at the picture for three seconds.

I saved the photo.

Deleted the text.

Blocked the number.

Then I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and splashed my face with water.

The cold water hit my skin, making it tighten up.

I looked up at the mirror. My eyes were a little red, but there were no tears.

Not a single drop.

*****

Charles completely ghosted me.

His phone went straight to voicemail. My texts were left on read. Reaching out to him felt like tossing a penny into a wishing well, totally pointless.

I had texted him three times.

[When are you coming back?]

[The heater is broken, and I don't know who to call.]

[Your mom told me to come over for dinner this weekend. Are you going to be there?]

Not a single reply.

On the fifth day, I was grabbing laundry from the balcony when I accidentally knocked over one of Charles's backpacks.

The zipper wasn't fully closed, and a few things tumbled out when it fell.

An old notebook.

A faded photograph.

A letter.

The notebook belonged to my dad.

The cover read: [William Lane, Clinical Notes].

The handwriting was incredibly familiar. It matched the exact penmanship I used to see when he updated patient charts during my childhood.

I froze for a moment.

My dad had been gone for eight years.

Why was his notebook in Charles's backpack?

I opened to the first page.

It was packed with dense notes detailing botanical formulas and dermatological research.

My dad had been a dermatologist at a local clinic for over twenty years. Since the clinic was small, he never made much of a name for himself.

During the years before he passed, he locked himself in his study every night to write.

My mom said he was doing research, but I never took it seriously.

Tucked into the last few pages was a letter.

The envelope read "To Evelyn." It was my dad's handwriting.

I opened it up.

It was short, maybe three hundred words, written in neat strokes.

[Evelyn, by the time you read this, I will probably be gone. There are things I never told you.

[My research from all these years has been patented. Seven patents in total, focusing on plant extracts and skin repair. They are all registered under your name.

[I left the documents with an old friend, Richard Ford. He will give them to you after you turn twenty-five. I haven't been the most capable father and couldn't give you and your mom a better life.

[But maybe these will come in handy one day. I will always love you.]

Chapter 3

##Chapter 3

"Evelyn!" Margaret's voice shot up an octave. "Remember who you're talking to!

"If Charles hadn't insisted on marrying you, someone with your background wouldn't even be allowed through our front gates!"

"What's wrong with my background?" I pushed.

"Do you really need me to say it out loud?" She looked me up and down. "Your dad died young. Your mom was a nurse at a rundown clinic.

"You grew up in a dump that hasn't seen a renovation in thirty years. You graduated from an average state school and worked as an admin assistant making three grand a month.

"Tell me, Evelyn, how does any of that make you worthy of Charles?"

My fingers curled into fists, clenching so tight they went numb.

"When Charles said he wanted to marry you, his father and I fought him tooth and nail," she continued, on a roll now. "He said he loved you. Fine. We compromised.

"But look at your behavior since the wedding. Your husband goes on a business trip, and you throw a tantrum and come crying to me. Is this how a proper wife acts?"

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I said.

"You're standing in my house demanding answers about Sophia Sinclair. What else would you call it?"

She sat back down and picked up her coffee. "I'm only going to say this once. Charles will stay in Froria for as long as he needs to.

"Sophia's injury requires long term rehab, and the specialists there are much better. Since you managed to marry into this family, you need to learn how to turn a blind eye."

"Turn a blind eye to what?"

"To the fact that he has other women," she stated, like it was a universal truth. "Men of his social standing always have a fling or two on the side.

"As long as he respects you as his wife and comes home to you, you should be grateful."

I looked at her for a long time.

Then, I bent down and placed the box of chocolates on the coffee table. "Keep the gift. I'm leaving."

I turned and walked toward the door.

"Evelyn." She called out from behind me.

I stopped, but I didn't turn around.

She said, "I suggest you play smart. Be a quiet, obedient wife, and your allowance will be deposited on time every month.

"But if you insist on making a scene and burning bridges, you'll walk away from a divorce with absolutely nothing. Our lawyers aren't just for show."

I gripped the door handle.

The cold metal seeped through my palm, settling deep into my bones.

"Thanks for the heads up," I said.

I pulled the door open and stepped out.

*****

I started digging.

That night, back at my apartment, I opened my laptop and went to the airline's website.

Checking international flight logs required passenger details. I didn't have Charles's passport number, but I knew his birthday.

After a few tries, a line of text popped up. [Charles Graham. Flight AF553. May 19th, 06:20 Departure. Destination: Pelaris, Froria. Status: Boarded.]

Under the section for accompanying passengers, there was another name.

Sophia Sinclair.

I stared at those two words for a full minute.

Then, I closed the tab and opened Google.

As soon as I typed "Sophia Sinclair", a massive wave of results flooded the screen.

The top hit was a TMZ style article from two months ago, featuring a paparazzi photo.

In the grainy image, Charles had his arm wrapped around a woman's shoulders as they strolled through a high end mall. The woman wore a white slip dress.

Her side profile was stunning, with long hair cascading down to her waist.

The headline read: [Graham Corp Heir Spotted Getting Cozy With Supermodel Sophia Sinclair. Secret Romance?]

I clicked the link.

The article explained that Sophia was the sole heiress to the Sinclair Group empire.

She was also a massive IT girl in the modeling industry. At twenty four, she had already booked several high profile luxury campaigns.

The paparazzi had caught Charles's car parked outside her penthouse for three consecutive nights.

The comments section was ruthless.

[Now this is a power couple! A billionaire obviously needs an equal match.]

[Wait, didn't Charles just marry some random nobody? Bet it was just a PR move for his parents.]

[Sophia is absolutely gorgeous. How could that Lane girl even compete?]

I scrolled down, reading comment after comment.

On the fifth page, I saw a newly posted comment, timestamped from the middle of the night.

[Breaking news! Sophia fell off the stage during a brand event and tore her knee ligaments.

[Charles rushed to the hospital and stayed by her bedside all night. True love right there.]

I closed the browser.

Right at that moment, my phone buzzed.

It wasn't Charles.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I opened it. It was a photo.

The background was a VIP hospital suite.

Sophia was sitting on the bed, her leg wrapped in a heavy brace. She looked pale, but she was smiling radiantly.

Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed. One of his hands was holding hers, and with his other hand, he was peeling an apple for her.

Beneath the photo was a single line of text.

[Ms. Lane, Charles's apple peeling skills have really gotten better. Did he ever do this for you?]

There was no signature.

But I knew exactly who sent it.

I stared at the picture for three seconds.

I saved the photo.

Deleted the text.

Blocked the number.

Then I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and splashed my face with water.

The cold water hit my skin, making it tighten up.

I looked up at the mirror. My eyes were a little red, but there were no tears.

Not a single drop.

*****

Charles completely ghosted me.

His phone went straight to voicemail. My texts were left on read. Reaching out to him felt like tossing a penny into a wishing well, totally pointless.

I had texted him three times.

[When are you coming back?]

[The heater is broken, and I don't know who to call.]

[Your mom told me to come over for dinner this weekend. Are you going to be there?]

Not a single reply.

On the fifth day, I was grabbing laundry from the balcony when I accidentally knocked over one of Charles's backpacks.

The zipper wasn't fully closed, and a few things tumbled out when it fell.

An old notebook.

A faded photograph.

A letter.

The notebook belonged to my dad.

The cover read: [William Lane, Clinical Notes].

The handwriting was incredibly familiar. It matched the exact penmanship I used to see when he updated patient charts during my childhood.

I froze for a moment.

My dad had been gone for eight years.

Why was his notebook in Charles's backpack?

I opened to the first page.

It was packed with dense notes detailing botanical formulas and dermatological research.

My dad had been a dermatologist at a local clinic for over twenty years. Since the clinic was small, he never made much of a name for himself.

During the years before he passed, he locked himself in his study every night to write.

My mom said he was doing research, but I never took it seriously.

Tucked into the last few pages was a letter.

The envelope read "To Evelyn." It was my dad's handwriting.

I opened it up.

It was short, maybe three hundred words, written in neat strokes.

[Evelyn, by the time you read this, I will probably be gone. There are things I never told you.

[My research from all these years has been patented. Seven patents in total, focusing on plant extracts and skin repair. They are all registered under your name.

[I left the documents with an old friend, Richard Ford. He will give them to you after you turn twenty-five. I haven't been the most capable father and couldn't give you and your mom a better life.

[But maybe these will come in handy one day. I will always love you.]