Chapter 308
Frederick glanced at the rearview mirror. "Sir, where should I drive to?"
Nathaniel's expression darkened. "Don't ask me. Ask her."
Frederick stole another look at Evelyn, who was fast asleep in the backseat. Lowering his voice, he said, "Sir, Mrs. Whitmore is already asleep."
Nathaniel turned his head to study Evelyn beside him.
Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her breathing steady. He exhaled sharply. "Take us home."
The car changed direction. Forty minutes later, they arrived at the gates of the marital estate.
Nathaniel stepped out and bent to lift Evelyn from the seat.
Evelyn wasn’t fully asleep. The moment she felt movement, she stirred slightly. But when she realized Nathaniel was carrying her, she kept her eyes shut.
Her pulse quickened as she listened to his footsteps. Where was he taking her?
To a hotel?
Then she heard Abigail’s voice. "Sir, Mrs. Whitmore seems intoxicated. Should I prepare some broth for her?"
Nathaniel’s reply was curt. "Yes."
Without another word, he carried her upstairs.
Evelyn recognized the familiar scent of their bedroom—the one she had decorated herself.
Her thoughts tangled. Should she pretend to keep sleeping or wake up now?
Before she could decide, she felt the softness of the mattress beneath her.
Nathaniel set her down gently, then shrugged off his jacket, his forehead damp from carrying her.
He strode to the bathroom without another glance. The sound of running water soon filled the room.
Evelyn cracked her eyes open. The bedroom was exactly as she remembered—warm, elegant, painfully familiar.
Her chest tightened. She hadn’t expected to return here before finalizing the divorce.
Her phone buzzed.
She snatched it up and whispered, "Aunt Margaret?"
"Evelyn, where are you? Why aren’t you home yet?"
"I’m working late at the studio. Don’t wait up. If I need a ride, I’ll call my brothers."
Margaret hesitated but finally relented. "Alright. Be careful."
Evelyn hung up and noticed a text from Jonathan.
Sorry about the whiskey mix-up.
She sighed. Janice—no, Judith—had given her the wrong drink.
Evelyn didn’t reply.
She stared at the ceiling, torn again. Should she keep pretending to sleep?
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Abigail entered with a tray. "Mrs. Whitmore, some warm broth might help."
Decision made.
Evelyn forced a smile. "Thank you."
Propped against the headboard, she sipped the broth. Abigail knew her tastes well—the warmth settled her stomach instantly.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I’ve left some snacks by the bedside. Toast, mostly. In case you get hungry later."
Evelyn realized she was hungry.
She’d barely eaten at dinner, too distracted by the whiskey and its aftermath.
She nibbled on the toast. Pregnancy meant she couldn’t skip meals.
The bathroom door swung open.
Nathaniel stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips.
His gaze landed on Evelyn, now wide awake and eating.
His brows furrowed.