All Chapters of Once His Wallflower, Now His Biggest Mistake : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Chapter 31Caleb’s POVThe office door slammed behind me with a sound that felt like a guillotine blade dropping. Evelyn was pacing the length of the Persian rug, her silk robe billowing around her ankles like white smoke. She looked like a goddess of war, if goddesses of war spent their mornings dealing with blue-tinted fiancés and suspicious French bakers."Explain," she said. One word. Sharp. Cold."Madame," I began, my hands tucked into my apron, "ze Prince... he has ze skin of a delicate grape. Some grapes, zey are green. Some, zey are red. Monsieur Alaric, he is... ze Concord.""Stop it, Jean-Pierre! Just stop." She spun around, her eyes boring into mine. "First, he’s purging his soul in the guest bathroom for six hours. Now, he looks like he’s been dipped in a vat of ink. My brother thinks you’re a saboteur. I think you’re... something else."She took a step toward me. The scent of her, that familiar, haunting mix of vanilla and power hit me like a physical blow. For a second,

Chapter 33Evelyn’s POVI woke up with the date burning in the back of my mind like a hot coal.August 14th.To the rest of the world, it was just a Tuesday in late summer. To the shareholders of Sterling Global, it was just another day to watch the stock tickers. But to me, it was the ghost of a life I had tried to bury. It was the anniversary of the night Caleb Knight, the real Caleb, before the ego and the boardrooms swallowed him whole, had taken me to a rooftop in Brooklyn and cooked for me.He hadn't been a billionaire then. He’d been a man with flour on his cheek and a look in his eyes that made me feel like the only girl in the world.And now, as I stood in my kitchen watching the man called "Jean-Pierre" obsessively polish a copper pot, I felt that same ghost walking through the room.The suspicion had moved past a hunch. It was a physical ache now. The way he moved, the way he caught falling glasses, the way he smelled like sandalwood even when he was covered in yeast, it w

Chapter 35: Evelyn’s POVThe steam in the master bathroom was so thick I could feel it clinging to my skin, turning my silk dress heavy. My heart was a drum, beating a rhythm of pure, unadulterated certainty.I have him.I watched the silhouette behind the frosted glass. The broad shoulders, the way he tilted his head when he was thinking, it was Caleb. It had to be. No baker, no matter how talented, possessed that specific, arrogant posture."The water is getting cold, Jean-Pierre," I said, my voice smooth and dangerous. "Or should I call you by your real name?"The silhouette froze. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the drip of the showerhead."Madame... I do not understand," the voice came back. It was muffled, but the French accent was still there, though it sounded strained. "My name... she is Jean-Pierre. Is there... another name you prefer? Jacques? Philippe? I am flexible for ze boss.""Stop it," I snapped, taking a step closer to the door. "I saw the hair. I

Chapter 37: Caleb’s POVIf the Sterling Penthouse was a shark tank, the annual "Silver Rose Charity Gala" was the deep ocean and it was currently swarming with Great Whites.I stood in the industrial kitchen of the Metropolitan Museum, sweating under the heavy fabric of my chef’s whites. But the heat from the ovens wasn’t my biggest problem. My biggest problem was that half the people in the ballroom tonight were men I had either bankrupt, sued, or outmaneuvered in my previous life as Caleb Knight."Jean-Pierre! Ze sauce! She is breaking like my grandmother’s heart!" I shouted at a bewildered sous-chef, keeping the accent dialed to a frantic level.I had to stay in character. But I had a new, terrifying obstacle. My face.Even with the blonde wig and the splotchy hive makeup, I was at risk. At a corporate meeting, people see what they expect to see. At a gala, people stare. They analyze. They gossip. One old rival with a sharp eye could look at me and see the "dead" billionaire beh

Chapter 39Evelyn’s POVThe penthouse was quiet, but it was the kind of silence that felt heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm.Every time I turned a corner, I expected to see Caleb’s silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows, but all I found was the lingering scent of old memories and the frantic, high-pitched clatter of Jean-Pierre in the kitchen.I walked toward the kitchen, my footsteps muffled by the silk rug. I wasn't hungry, but I was restless. I needed to do something with my hands, maybe organize the spice rack that Jean-Pierre had turned into a chaotic map of French inspiration.As I stepped into the kitchen, the sunlight was hitting the marble island at a sharp angle. Jean-Pierre was nowhere to be seen; he was likely in the pantry or out fetching more of that artisanal flour" he was so obsessed with.I reached for the herb drawer, intending to tidy the stray sprigs of rosemary. But as I pulled the drawer open, something shifted in the back. A small, elegant glass