Chapter 12

Evelyn’s POV

My son and I had a tough relationship because he saw me as an enemy. He was grown now, could make decisions for himself, and I still wanted to affect most of those decisions because I had his best interest at heart. Yet it always came off as control, and he behaved like every twenty-year-old boy would stubborn, defensive, full of pride he hadn’t earned.

He only came home on weekends, and even then, he barely said two sentences to me. Every time he was around, all he did was lock himself in his room, play games, go out with his friends to play soccer, and hang out till midnight. It was routine for him, but for me, it was hell. I tried to understand, I really did, but being his mother didn’t mean I stopped being human. Watching your child pull away from you hurts in ways that words don’t explain.

It was late afternoon, and as usual, his friends had pulled up in the driveway, honking twice to announce their arrival. I could already picture them leaning out of the car, laughing at some inside joke that probably had nothing to do with the game they were going to play.

He came out, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a bag I assumed had all his game essentials. His hair was messy, and he didn’t bother to look back. Clara saw him through the kitchen window and immediately started to panic. She was wearing his shirt one she had stolen from his room and she knew the drama that would follow if he caught her.

“Go hide before he sees you,” I told her, trying not to laugh as she darted toward the stairs.

She paused halfway and whispered, “He’s going to notice, Mom. He always notices.”

“Then you better move fast,” I said, smiling.

By the time I turned back, Nathan was already stepping out the front door. “Come home early for dinner!” I called after him.

He didn’t answer. He never did.

Clara returned a few minutes later, barefoot, hair scattered, pretending she hadn’t just sprinted up and down the stairs. “Mom, can I put this next?” she asked, holding a bowl of sugar. Her face was flushed, her energy endless.

It was another baking lesson our small weekend tradition. She loved making her favorite cookies, and she did it with too much excitement for a sixteen-year-old. Flour dusted her shirt, the same shirt she’d probably ruin before we finished.

“I hope Theo likes cookies,” she mumbled, almost to herself, while stirring.

I turned, pretending not to react immediately. “Theo? Are you talking to him?”

Her head shot up, eyes wide. “No, Mom. I wasn’t talking about him.”

“Don’t lie, Clara.”

“I’m not! I was just saying it generally.”

I sighed. “You need to stop crushing on older boys, especially Theo. You’re sixteen.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

I let it go. There was no point dragging it. But I knew I’d have to keep an eye on her. Her fascination with men older than her was worrying. I didn’t want her making the same mistakes I made when I was her age.

I poured the last bit of vanilla into the mix and set the tray in the oven. The kitchen smelled sweet, comforting, and for a moment, I felt like things were normal. Except my mind wasn’t in that kitchen. It was somewhere else on the call I hadn’t gotten yet.

Madeline.

I wondered how far she had gone with our plan. It had been days since we last spoke, and the silence was eating at me. I wanted news something solid. Alfred was a powerful man, and people loved to protect power. If anyone from the bureau worked under his influence, they’d try to sweep everything under the rug before it reached the public. I needed to make sure it didn’t.

I leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the oven light flickering through the glass door. Then I heard a sound outside the rumble of a car pulling into the driveway. Clara ran toward the window.

“Dad’s home!” she said, surprised.

That couldn’t be right. He wasn’t supposed to be home this early. My stomach twisted a little.

The door swung open moments later, and Alfred walked in, his face dark, his movements sharp. Clara, oblivious, ran straight to him.

“Dad!” she said, throwing her arms around him. “Mom taught me how to bake cookies again, and I didn’t burn anything this time!”

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he said absently, barely glancing down at her.

Whatever was on his mind was eating him alive. He smiled faintly at her, told her he couldn’t wait to taste the cookies, then excused himself and went upstairs without another word.

Clara frowned. “Is he mad?”

“He’s just tired,” I said softly, watching his back disappear up the stairs.

I wiped my hands and followed him.

The bedroom door was open. His suit jacket was on the floor, his tie halfway undone. He was pacing near the window, mumbling something under his breath.

“Someone is playing with me,” he said without turning around, as though he’d sensed me there.

“What happened?” I asked, picking up his suit and laying it neatly on the couch.

“The bureau,” he said, finally facing me. “They’re sniffing around, looking for something. They won’t come this far unless someone’s behind it.”

For a moment, I froze. I didn’t expect it this soon.

His voice carried frustration, but underneath, there was fear. He was too proud to admit it, but I saw it in the way his hands twitched and the way he kept running his fingers through his hair.

I wanted to smile, to laugh even. My plan was finally taking form. He was hurting, anxious, restless. It wasn’t nearly enough to match the pain he’d caused me, but it was something. Watching him unravel, even slightly, felt like a small victory.

Still, I had to act. I had to play the role I’d mastered for years—the perfect wife.

“What did Markus say?” I asked gently.

He sighed. “I called him. I called everyone. They said it’s already out of their hands. The bureau has authorization. They’re going through with the investigation.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his head low. “It’s all bullshit. I’ve done everything right. Everything.”

I stepped closer, resting my hand on his shoulder. “You’ll fix this, Alfred. You always do.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes, searching for reassurance. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” I said, steady, calm. “You’ve built too much to let it crumble over rumors. They’ll check, they’ll find nothing, and it’ll blow over.”

He exhaled heavily, nodding. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” I said, brushing his hair back the way I used to when things were simpler. “Now, stop worrying. You’ll make it worse if you panic.”

He managed a small smile. “I don’t panic.”

I didn’t argue.

He stood, grabbed his phone from the dresser, and began dialing. “I need to make some calls.”

I nodded and watched him walk out.

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the quiet.

I turned toward the window. Outside, the driveway lights flickered on, and I could still hear Clara laughing downstairs. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the satisfaction seep in quietly. The bureau was moving. Madeline must have done her part.

I walked to the mirror, fixing my hair, my reflection calm and unbothered. Inside, my mind was a storm. I could see the cracks forming already his campaign, his perfect image, his power. All of it trembling.

The cookies’ scent drifted faintly through the house, but I barely noticed. For the first time in a long while, I felt something close to peace.

Let him make all the calls he wants. Let him scramble and reach for people who no longer owed him loyalty.

It had finally begun. And this time, I wouldn’t stop until he broke the way he made me break.