"I won't let you go, and you aren't a third party," he turned her gaze to meet his. "You, Evelyn, are the only woman who will ever bear the name Mrs. Thorn."
Evelyn wrapped her arms around his neck, the knot of insecurity in her chest loosening. Michael brought her more than just the protection of the Thorn International empire; he brought a sense of peace she hadn't known she was missing. In his arms, the bitter world of the City felt distant.
He swept her up and carried her to the bed, but before he could join her, Evelyn pulled out her phone. She looked at the draft of the photo she'd prepared. Her thumb hovered over the 'Post' button. If she sent this, the Erica Jones "scandal" would die instantly.
But she hesitated. Would a move this aggressive, hurt Michael's affect the stocks of Michael's company? Would it make her look desperate? She clicked on Cancel. She would Let Michael handle his problems himself.
The truce between the two women in the villa was non-existent. While Michael was buried in a massive international project that kept him away for three days, Erica decided to make herself truly at home. She had her assistant deliver her pet dog, Snowy.
Evelyn returned home after a late shopping trip with her friend, Jade, to find the villa dark. The staff and even the house keeper was nowhere in sight. As she opened her bedroom door, a white blur shrieked and lunged at her legs.
"Ah!" Evelyn screamed, stumbling back.
Erica appeared at the end of the hallway, looking leisurely as she scooped the white dog that looked like a puppy but with lots of furs into her arms. "Snowy, did the mean lady scare you?"
"Why is there a dog in this house?" Evelyn's heart was hammering against her ribs. She didn't just dislike dogs; she had a visceral, deep-seated phobia.
"I wanted my pet here. Michael and I picked her out together years ago," Erica said with a cold, triumphant smirk. "If you have a problem with it, take it up with the master of the house."
"Miss Jones, I am the mistress of this house, and I am telling you, get that animal out. I have a phobia."
"Your phobia isn't my concern," Erica purred, stroking the dog's silk fur. "Snowy stays."
Evelyn spent the next hour scrubbing herself in the shower, convinced she could still feel dog fur on her skin. She was tucked into bed when she heard the distinct sound of Michael's Car pulling into the driveway.
She ran downstairs, opening the door just as the house keeper re-ermerged from the house and made to open the door. Michael stepped inside, and the sight of her seemed to wash the exhaustion away from his face. He pulled her into a deep, hungry kiss, not caring about the presence of the house staff.
"Bark!!"
The little sound broke the moment like a gunshot. Michael pulled back, his eyes searching the dim hallway until they landed on the white dog sitting regally on the bottom step.
"Snowy?" Michael's voice held a note of recognition that made Evelyn's stomach turn. He walked over, picking the dog up and scratching it behind the ears. "I haven't seen this little one in years."
"Michael, I asked her to send it away," Evelyn said, standing by the coat rack, refusing to get closer. "I can't be near dogs. You know I'm terrified."
Erica appeared on the landing in a silk negligee. "Michael, I missed her so much, I had her sent over. She's so sweet, isn't she?"
Michael looked at the dog, then at his trembling wife. "Evelyn, Snowy is harmless. Erica, just keep her in your room. Don't let her wander while Evelyn is home."
Erica's lip curled, but she took the dog obediently and retreated.
"Stop!!," Evelyn said sharply as Michael approached her.
Michael froze. "What?"
"You touched the dog. You need to wash."
Michael stared at her, stunned. He was the CEO of one of the most powerful company in the world, a man people feared to look at, and his wife was ordering him to the shower like a naughty schoolboy. He shook his head with a tired laugh and headed upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, Michael emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, smelling of expensive shower gel and soap. He found Evelyn sitting upright in bed, eyes narrowed.
"Are you done washing?" she interrogated.
"Three times, Evelyn! I scrubbed until I was red," he grumbled, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Can I enter my own bed now, or do I need to be quarantined?"
"The clothes you wore today, are they in the bin? Did you discard them?" Evelyn's interrogation was relentless as Michael sat on the edge of the bed.
Michael looked at his wife, amused yet exhausted. "Yes, General, I discarded them. Are you satisfied?" He tossed his towel aside and pulled her into the covers.
"Wait! I have something for you." Evelyn wriggled out of his grasp and grabbed a small, elegantly wrapped handbag from her dresser.
Michael opened the box to find a sleek, brown wallet. A genuine smile touched his lips. "What brought this on?"
"Open it," she whispered, leaning against his shoulder. Inside the first flap was a four-inch photo of Evelyn, her smile radiant and unforced. Michael immediately began transferring his cards and cash from his old wallet to the new one. He turned off the bedside lamp, his heart feeling a rare moment of uncomplicated warmth. Knowing Evelyn had the next day off, he decided to "repay" her for the gift until the early hours of the morning.
By noon the next day, Michael was deep in a meeting with his lead counsel, discussing the legalities of the new investment. In the hallway, the elevator dinged, and Erica Jones stepped out. She was dressed in an understated but expensive tea party dress, carrying a lunch box.
"Hello, Miss Jones," Dominic said, his tone professional but guarded.
"I'm here to see Michael. Is he in?" Erica flashed a smile that had graced a thousand magazine covers.
"The President is in a private meeting, Miss Jones. I should inform him—"
"No need. I'll just surprise him." Erica didn't wait for permission. She pushed open the doors of the executive suite.
The lawyer looked up, surprised to see the woman. "Ah, Michael, I see your 'old friend' is here. I'll leave you two to it. We'll talk later." He gathered his files and gave Michael a meaningful look before exiting.
Michael's brow furrowed. "Erica? You shouldn't be walking on that foot."
"I'm much better today," she lied sweetly, setting the lunch box on his desk. "I know how hard you've been working. I made your favorite for lunch. Mrs. May guided me during the entire process.
Michael hesitated, but the scent of the home-cooked meal as she dismantled the meal was a sharp contrast to the cold corporate air. He picked a spoon and took a bite. "It's good. Thank you. Now, go home and rest."
Erica didn't leave. She sat on the sofa, watching him work with a predatory kind of adoration. When she saw him rub his temples in fatigue, she stood up and placed her cool, soft hands over his. "Let me help."
Michael pulled her hands away firmly. "Go back, Erica. Don't do this."
"Michael, I regret everything," she muttered lowly, her voice breaking. "I just want to be near you. Please don't drive me away."
Michael didn't answer, returning his focus to the screen. Taking advantage of his silence, Erica snapped a candid photo of him working intensely. She posted it to her Instagram immediately with a caption.
As the post went viral, racking up hundreds of thousands of "blessings" from fans who assumed they were back together, Erica sat on the sofa lost in thought. She had been twenty when they officially started. At twenty-two, she was the toast of the world. At twenty-four, her life had shattered.
She remembered that night vividly. Michael had been away on business. Against his explicit warnings, she had gone to a hotel to meet a famous director and a producer. They had drugged her water. By the time Michael's close friend arrived to check on her, the damage was done. The room was a wreck, and Erica was in a coma-like stupor.
Although the Jones family has not been in support of her entering the entertainment industry, they used their immense power to bury the scandal, ensuring the director and producer faced immediate execution. Michael had stayed by her side, helping her through the trauma, and they had even planned their engagement for the following month.
But on the day of the dinner, Erica was delayed by a high-profile show. By the time she arrived, Michael was gone. He said he understood, but from that day on, the warmth had left his eyes. He stopped calling. He stopped initiating.
Erica looked at Michael now, her jaw tightening. She had clawed her way back to the international stage, but she had lost the only man who mattered. She wouldn't let a "lowly woman" like Evelyn take the throne she had spent a decade building.