He didn’t hold his children. Because he didn’t care if they lived. Rachel blinked.
Evelyn continued. I heard him tell the doctor, once. He said if they didn’t make it, it’d be less complicated.
She let that horror settle. I let him take everything from. Me, Rachel.
My name. My home. My money.
And worst of all, my silence. Rachel sat forward, her voice firm now. But not anymore.
No, Evelyn agreed. Not anymore. The tea had gone cold.
Rachel leaned in. Eyes sharp. You need to.
Decide now. Do we settle quietly? Or do we burn him publicly? Evelyn answered without hesitation. I want the world to know what he did.
What he never did. Rachel nodded once. Then tomorrow, we file.
Evelyn’s gaze drifted to the closed bedroom. Door, where her son slept peacefully for once. People think this is about money.
It’s not. Rachel’s voice softened. What’s it about? History.
Rachel frowned slightly. Evelyn’s tone was bitter. Final.
I won’t let my sons. Grow up thinking silence is strength. Rachel understood then.
Victor Monroe’s empire wasn’t Evelyn’s target. His legacy was… Rachel stood. I’ll prepare the statements.
But Evelyn wasn’t done. She reached for her phone and opened a gallery. Dozens of photos.
Not staged. Not public. Quiet moments of four tiny boys growing.
Rachel watched as Evelyn scrolled through them silently. Finally, Evelyn whispered, more to herself than anyone. He never even looked at them.
Rachel said nothing. Outside, security lights blinked. Silence settled over the safe house once more.
But it wasn’t safety Evelyn felt that I.T. was the calm before war at B.Y. morning. The world had chosen sides. Evelyn Monroe’s name trended in headlines across five continents.
News anchors debated endlessly over grainy airport footage and speculated about the mysterious quadruplets seen clinging to her skirt. Commentators dissected her silence, her expression, her unpainted face. Was she a cold, calculated woman staging? Revenge? Or a broken wife? Betrayed? It depended which channel you watched.
Victor Monroe’s PR team moved swiftly. A carefully worded statement leaked within hours. Mr. Monroe deeply regrets the emotional pain caused by private matters becoming public.
He remains committed to his role as a father and requests privacy for his children. The headlines spun, a father misunderstood. Victor liked that phrase.
Behind the mirrored glass walls of his penthouse office, Victor paced like a caged animal, reviewing draft after draft of his next speech. His personal assistant hovered nervously nearby. Control the narrative, he muttered.
That’s all that matters. But no script could reverse what happened. Somewhere deep inside, Victor knew that he had carried the wrong bag.
And now, the media carried the story. Across the city, Nadia watched the same headlines. Her name.
Her photos. Her career. Destroy.IT had taken less than 12 hours for the press to find her modeling profiles.
Her old Instagram photos. Her interviews about. Empowering women.
Now every image had a new caption. The mistress who destroyed a billionaire marriage. Online comments filled her inbox.
Whore.golddigger. Homewrecker. She turned off her phone. But silence didn’t help.
Nadia sat curled on the floor of a borrowed apartment. Her knees drawn to her chest. Mascara smudged from crying.
The blinds pulled tight against daylight. Victor hadn’t called. She hated herself for expecting him to dot on TV.
Analysts speculated about her role in the scandal as if her life were. A subplot in Victor’s downfall. One commentator chuckled cruelly.
Did she think she was special? That’s what mistresses always think. Nadia shut her eyes. Maybe he was right.
Across the city, in the quiet of her safe house, Evelyn sat. Watching the same coverage. But where Nadia cried, Evelyn only watched in silence.
Her expression unreadable. Each insult leveled at her didn’t wound. Each accusation of being cold only confirmed what she’d been taught that a woman who doesn’t cry is dangerous than a woman who speaks is ungrateful.
Victor had taught her well. But now, the world could watch. And Evelyn intended to let them.
Back in his penthouse, Victor rehearsed. This was a misunderstanding. My wife and I have… differences, yes.
But… he stopped. Frustrated, the assistant waited. Then hesitated.
Sir, with respect, people. Might not believe you. Victor turned slowly, eyes sharp.
I built this city’s skyline. His assistant said nothing.Victor’s phone bust. He checked it, expecting support.
Instead, his legal advisor’s text chilled him. She’s hired Rachel Lynn. Victor’s hand tightened around the phone.
Lynn wasn’t a divorce lawyer. She was a war strategist. His mouth went dry.
Victor stared. Out the window, at the city he once owned. Realizing he was no longer writing the script.
Evelyn was. And she wasn’t rushing. Across the screens of the world.
Her silence spoke louder than Victor’s carefully crafted words. The media wasn’t covering a scandal. They were watching a public execution.
Victor Monroe just didn’t know if he was the victim.or the criminal. Nadia waited in silence. The hotel.
Suite was too perfect. Beige walls. Gold accents.
Sterile luxury. Like the life she’d once dreamed of. Now, she sat on the edge of a velvet chair, twisting her trembling fingers.
Every second dragged. She almost ran when the door clicked open. Evelyn.
Stepped inside.no security. No lawyer. Just her.
Calm. Controlled. Terrifying.
She closed the door softly behind her. The click louder than Nadia’s heartbeat. Neither woman spoke.
Nadia stood. Too quickly. Her voice cracked.
I. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Evelyn raised.
A single hand. Nadia fell silent. Evelyn crossed the room with careful, deliberate steps.
She didn’t sit. She stood opposite Nadia. Gazed steady.