Chapter 37
Don’t Preach
Fenella
“Gosh, I feel content.” Jessy lets out this long, loud sigh in front of Laird’s office building. I chuckle at his excitement.
We have passion and we complement each other’s work style. The friendship we’ve built over seven years means everything in my career. Even next month marks eight years of working together, and it all feels incredible.
“February second. Isn’t that a beautiful date for the company’s founding day?” Jessy giggles with that dreamy look, hope practically glowing over his head.
“Yes, Jessy. Can you believe it? Us, business owners?” I smile, my cheeks warm. Our fingers squeeze together. We squeal, jumping in joy, then crash into a bear hug. We’ve taken a huge step in our lives, and it’s too weird to believe.
A black van suddenly stops in front of us. Its tires screech from the sudden brake right at the edge of the sidewalk. I jump in surprise as it appears out of nowhere.
Three men step out of the van. They’re all in suits and sunglasses. Two of them press in on me before I even understand what’s happening. The third man stands between Jessy and me, using his tall, broad body like a wall.
“Ms. Baxter, please come with us. Our boss has made a reservation for lunch with you,” the man says.
“Well, tell your boss to kiss my ass. He can’t just send thugs to kidnap me like this.” I glare at them, furious.
“Fenella.” Jessy says my name with a trembling voice.
“Please understand our situation. There’s no need to make a scene. Mr. Evans doesn’t want us to use violence against you.” The man in front opens the van door wider and gestures for me to get in.
“Who?” The tension on my face drops as I sharpen my ears to make sure I heard correctly.
“Mr. Hugo Evans,” the man answers.
“Move aside. I’m calling the police, and I’ll blast your faces on social media until it goes viral if you don’t release her right now.” Jessy raises his voice, already pulling out his phone.
“It’s okay, Jessy. They’re Laird’s father’s men. You should go home.” I tell him quietly. Then I climb into the black van on my own, leaving Jessy on the sidewalk as the door closes behind me.
* * *
After fifteen minutes of back-and-forth calls with Laird, I’m sure this is really his father. I don’t know what he wants, but I follow along. The man in front of me stands and opens the door.
I step into the sleek lobby of the skyscraper. The elevator hums as it takes us up to the thirtieth floor. When it opens, a thick black carpet stretches out toward an upscale restaurant.
This place is always crowded. Reservations usually take months, and yet here I am, a table apparently waiting for me. Mr. Hugo Evans must be a VIP with influence across the city. How could I forget that he’s a senior partner at law firms worldwide?
Why would he invite me to lunch? And go so far as to send three men to pick me up, waiting like hawks outside Laird’s office?
The staff greet me politely, smiles wide but careful.
When the men mention Hugo Evans’ name, the staff nods respectfully.
He walks ahead of me and leads me to a table in the center of the room.
The restaurant buzzes with sharply dressed men and women, but all of that fades next to him.
Hugo Evans fills the room without trying, a predator at rest.
He sits alone, back straight, chin high, eyes scanning the city beyond the window like it’s his personal kingdom. Dark blonde hair, brown eyes shadowed beneath, a face marked by age yet hardened by power. The way he lifts a glass of wine suggests a man used to being in control.
“Mr. Evans,” a server says softly, “your guest has arrived.”
His crooked smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts a hand to gesture me to sit. “Please, Ms. Baxter.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, voice steady though my stomach twists. I repeat it in my mind, a mantra: don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t make a mistake.
He doesn’t blink. His gaze sharpens, silently scanning me, calculating, judging. The weight of those eyes drilling into me, imagining all the doubts, all the criticisms he might have about Laird and me. My hands clench lightly in my lap.
“How are you, Miss Baxter?”
“I’m fine, thank you. And you, sir?” I smile broadly, though my pulse races under my cardigan.
“Nothing much. My life is… dull,” he says, eyes flicking to a server who pours my wine. I didn’t ask for it. Is this his way of controlling even the tiniest detail?
“Unlike your life,” he says, his voice lowering, “I was surprised to see your name next to Malcolm Golden’s in the newspaper. Must be hard, being considered a famous heroine.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir. I just helped him a little, and the media noticed,” I say, laughing nervously, hand pressed against my mouth. My nerves spike, fingers trembling slightly.
“Laird also helped and had to be treated at Andover Hospital for a gunshot wound to his stomach.” His head tilts slightly, cold curiosity in his eyes.
God, he must be blaming me for it—and maybe he should. Laird was hurt because of me.
“Yes. He played a major role. You’d probably call him a national hero now. He used his sharp, brilliant mind to coordinate everything,” I beam, forcing confidence into my tone, though my stomach twists at the thought of angering him.
“Hm, you think so?” His fingers stroke his clean-shaven jaw. “Well, for me, it’s exactly the opposite. I’m disappointed in him.” He shakes his head, voice hoarse and sharp.
I blink. My brow furrows. His disappointment is personal, unfair and, heavy. I remain quiet at first, tasting the tension in the air, but then I push forward.
“Excuse me? Why?”
“Because he helped my enemy,” he says, voice hard as steel.
I blink again. Enemy? Laird mentioned Golden’s affair with his mother years ago. But that was, what, ten years ago? Mr. Evans has been busy with his younger girlfriend too. Isn’t that enough to show that everyone has moved on?
“But he helped catch criminals. He contributed to society,” I venture, swallowing hard and keeping my voice steady.
“And in that process, he helped my archenemy without considering my feelings,” he scoffs. “He dares to reopen old wounds. Sometimes he can’t even defend his own family when it truly matters.”
A server interrupts, setting a plate of smoked tuna canapés with cherry tomatoes between us. Mr. Evans gestures with a hand, sharp and precise. “Please, Ms. Baxter.”
“Thank you.” My lips press together as I take the fork, bracing myself for what comes next.
We eat in silence. The atmosphere getting darker, colder than when we first sat down. Or maybe it’s just my nerves doing laps in my chest. After we finish the canapés, the waiter clears the plates and brings the main course. Wagyu steak with truffle sauce, mashed potatoes, and mixed veggies.
I bite my lower lip as I look at the dish. I shouldn’t be rude, but I don’t think I can finish it. And if I leave anything behind, I don’t know how Mr. Evans will judge me. Then again, he’s been judging me since the moment I walked in. The Shark scans for weakness the way normal people breathe.
“What do you do for work, Ms. Baxter?” he asks while cutting his steak with that slow, surgical precision that makes the whole table feel like cross-examination.
“I’m a model. And I just opened a modeling agency with my friend. Like, literally just opened it twenty minutes ago.” I chuckle awkwardly, smiling a little too tight.
“Hm. I don’t understand why you didn’t start a real business like your father.” His lips purse like the words taste bad.
The hit lands harder than it should. A real business? And why did he drag my dad into this all of a sudden? I force myself to stay polite. I shouldn’t snap. That’s exactly the reaction he’s fishing for.
“Well, I’m passionate about fashion and entertainment. I’ve been a model for over seven years, so it’s not easy to walk away from it.” I give him a thin, controlled smile.
“Yes. I understand. Sometimes we try to prove our worth after the chaos we’ve created.”
“Excuse me?” My fork pauses midair.
“It’s exactly what I said.” He carves into his steak, voice cold. “I know you were lost after shutting down your mother agency that built your name. That must’ve been rough, but I don’t entirely blame you. People can be… desperate.”
A sharp, hot anger pulses under my ribs. So this is how he talks to Laird. Calm. Judging. Cruel.
“I’m not desperate. It was my decision,” I say.
“Really? And Laird? Did you make him follow your decision too? Was working with Golden your idea?” His eyes narrow, dissecting me piece by piece like a hostile witness on the stand.
My heart races. My fingers sting from how hard I’m gripping the utensils. The knife and fork feel heavy now, and my appetite drops off the cliff. He’s blaming me for everything. He’s making me the scapegoat.
“He made his own decision,” I say quietly.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. Defiance is one thing. My ego is another.” He presses the knife harder, cutting the steak like he’s punishing it. He keeps slicing, jaw tight, almost enjoying the way I shrink under the pressure. A predator savoring the squirm.
“With all due respect, sir, is that what you think his life is about? Keeping your ego intact? He’s not your babysitter.” My voice is firm. Cold. My smile disappears. I’m done being polite.
He looks up sharply, eyes cutting right through me.
“I guess I misjudged you. I thought you could put some sense into him. Looking at you now,” his hand flicks in a small wave toward me, like he’s presenting something beneath his standards, “clearly, I was wrong.” He sets his utensils down with slow, deliberate precision.
“Do you know how much work I’ve put into shaping him into the man he is today? And you keep dragging him in the wrong direction, just like when you were kids. I expected better, considering your parents are friends of mine.”
“Wrong direction?” My brow tightens.
“I know everything, and I still let it happen. I assumed the two of you would break up in minutes.”
I scoff, but he ignores it. Of course he does.
“I even treated your mother kindly. But you made him reject profitable partnerships. You caused issues with his boss. You dragged him into Golden’s mess. And now he’s knee-deep in pain because of you.” His voice rises, the shark surfacing fully now. He’s losing patience with my existence alone.
“Sir, I know we’re tangled in something big, but we did the right thing,” I say, my voice trembling even though I’m trying to stay steady.
“No. You’re just selfish. Chasing temporary thrills.” His tone spikes, like he’s raising an objection he knows will land.
That’s it. He doesn’t like me. He never has, and never will. And nothing I say or do will change that, the same way nothing Laird ever did earned him freedom or praise or even the right to breathe his own life.
I place my knife and fork upright in the center of the plate. A clean, polite signal. I’m done.
“I apologize, Mr. Evans. But you’ll have to live with your disappointment.
I won’t break up with Laird. We love each other.
And time has already proven that.” He opens his mouth to strike again, but I cut in first. “I’ll say it again whenever the moment calls for it.
Laird is brilliant. He has a tremendously big heart.
And he’s allowed to make his own choices as a grown adult. ”
I lean forward slightly, voice crisp, spine unmoving. “If you think he’s a horse you can control with reins, you’re mistaken. And you should get your act together before you lose your son for good. And yes, I’ll be selfish. I’ll keep smiling with him until you’re sick of seeing it.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I can bend and break both your lives,” he growls.
“Oh, totally. I’ll tremble under my bed.” I push my chair back and stand. My nerves burn, but my voice stays low and clean. “But I’ll be with Laird. And you’ll be alone.”
I nod once. “Enjoy your meal, sir. Good day.”