When will you come back?

Wyatt’s POV

The clinking of glasses and the occasional flow of laughter filled the banquet hall, wrapping the air in a light mood. People interacted in an easy, casual way. Yet none of it mattered to me. My eyes were fixed on her.

Evelyn.

When she walked in with that air of confidence around her, chin lifted, every step calculated, every glance intense. She was the kind of woman who didn’t just enter a room—she effortlessly got attention. It was like a spotlight was being shone on her.

My chest swelled with smugness, a private satisfaction bubbling up. I knew she’d come to me, sooner or later. She always did.

She did come, yes. But not to me.

Instead, she passed me without a flicker of acknowledgment. Not a glance, not a pause, nothing. She moved past as if I were invisible, like I was just a random human being who wasn’t worth her attention.

She stopped right in front of Judy, who eyed Evelyn with a mixed expression.

“Get up,” Evelyn’s voice rang out, authoritative, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Judy blinked, caught off guard, her lips parted in surprise. Then, slowly, her mouth curved into a mocking smile. “Excuse me?”

I frowned, leaning forward just enough to make my disapproval clear, and my presence known. “Judy, stay seated.” My tone was firm.

But Evelyn’s dismissive eyes slid to me for only a slight second. The look pierced straight through, and for a second it felt as if she’d silenced me without a single word. That sting of being ignored… it was painful than I’d like to imagine.

“I said—get up,” she repeated, her tone sharper.

Judy gave a soft laugh, tilting her head back with a look of disdain. Clearly, she didn’t take Evelyn seriously. “Why should I? Wyatt invited me. Didn’t you, Wyatt?”

Her words prompted me to speak and assert my authority. But before I could speak, Evelyn’s hand moved.

She reached into her purse, her movements precise and deliberate. She pulled out a checkbook, tore a leaf with an almost elegant violence, and slammed the check onto the table.

The sound was louder than it should have been, sharp enough that the people around us turned to look. Judy was just as confused as I was at the check.

Evelyn’s voice cut through the murmurs—crisp, cold, and viciously controlled.

“Whatever Wyatt is paying you tonight to spend time with him, I’ll pay double. ”

The room seemed to freeze, the air itself suspended. My jaw went slack. Did she just—? Did she just reduce Judy to…

Yes. Evelyn had just reduced Judy, in front of everyone, to what she truly was—a prostitute, a woman who spread her legs for money.

The effect was instantaneous. Judy’s face went ghostly pale, then flushed red, humiliation and fury crashing together as the weight of the stares around us pressed down on her. The crowd didn’t need to whisper; their silence was louder than words.

My lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came. I couldn’t defend Judy now—not without confirming Evelyn’s words, not without dragging myself down with her.

And Judy—proud in her own way, couldn’t bear it. Not the glances, not the whispers and the murmurs.

In that single, merciless moment, Evelyn had reclaimed what dignity that had been stripped from her. With nothing but her voice and her financial power, she’d turned the tables, not just wounding Judy but asserting herself as someone who would not be humiliated.

Infuriated, she trembled “You—how dare you—”

Her voice cracked, breaking apart under the weight of the insult. She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t defend herself. With a trembling hand, she snatched her purse from the chair and stormed off, her heels clicking furiously against the marble floor.

People whispered as she left humiliated.

But Evelyn didn’t mind the whispers. Not once. She had taken Judy out with nothing but her words.

I sat there, stunned, my mind a whirl of disbelief. The Evelyn I remembered—she had been humble, not ruthless like this. But tonight, there was no hesitation in her, no restraint. She was driven by something different, something I couldn’t place.

Then her gaze turned to me, locking onto mine with the kind of focus that seemed to burn holes. Without asking, she plucked the half-empty glass of whiskey from my hand, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment.

She set it aside, far from my reach.

“You should stop drinking,” she said.

Her tone was flat, almost scolding. Something twisted in me, a flare of irritation rising hot and fast. I clenched my fists, fighting the sudden urge to lash out.

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” I shot back, my voice harsher than intended.

“Drinking is bad for your health,” she replied calmly

And just like that, the fight drained out of me. My anger cracked, leaving behind something I couldn’t quite name. For one brief, disorienting moment, it almost felt like she cared. As though my wellbeing mattered to her.

No one had worried about me. Not sincerely. Not in years.

The realization was unusual and unexpected, unsettling in ways I didn’t want to admit. Slowly, my shoulders relaxed, my grip loosening as the fury faded out.

Evelyn crossed her legs with that same grace, as though she owned not just the chair but the entire hall. Her gaze never wavered, her eyes scanning mine as though searching for something.

The silence between us stretched for a while. And then, almost without meaning to, I heard myself ask—

“When are you moving back to our wedding home?”

Her brows furrowed, surprise flickering across her face. But I pressed on, forcing calmness into my voice that I didn’t feel.

“You know I kept the house from the divorce. It’s still yours if you want it. I—” My throat tightened, the words dragging like lead. “It’s yours.”

Her lips parted slightly, surprise flashing for the briefest second before it disappeared, replaced by that same cool detachment.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Even yet, in a way, the silence itself was louder than the laughter in the hall, louder than the background music.

For the first time in a long while, I felt exposed. Like my words had made me vulnerable in front of her.

“Evelyn,” I said again. “Legally, after the divorce, our wedding’s home ownership was under your name. So you should come back.”

Her eyes met mine then, steady, unreadable. And for a split second—just one—I thought she might say yes.

But instead, she leaned back, crossing her arms in that effortless display of power. A small smile tugged at her lips.

“You want me to come back and keep you company?” she repeated softly