Shattered Rings And Her Priceless Hidden Identity

Evelyn walked out of the hotel lobby, the cold morning air hitting her face as she navigated the crowded sidewalks of Fifth Avenue.

She pushed open the heavy oak door of an exclusive, underground speakeasy hidden beneath the city streets.

Her best friend and art dealer, Amiya Hunt, was already sitting in a dark leather booth in the corner, waving her over.

Evelyn walked over, dropped her designer bag onto the seat, and collapsed into the booth, her muscles aching.

Amiya signaled the bartender and immediately ordered two strong, dry martinis.

Amiya stared at the white gauze on Evelyn's forehead, her brow furrowing as she asked about the crash and the divorce papers.

Evelyn shook her head, the exhaustion settling deep in her bones. She told Amiya she had signed the papers and walked away with nothing.

Amiya let out a sharp scoff. She unzipped her leather briefcase and pulled out a confidential document stamped with the Penguin Random House logo.

Amiya slid the thick paper across the table, leaning in close and whispering the name "E. A. Nightfall."

The financial statement showed that the latest quarter of overseas royalty payments had successfully cleared into Evelyn's offshore accounts.

Evelyn stared at the massive, seven-figure number printed in black ink. A bitter, mocking smile twisted her lips.

She picked up her martini glass and tipped her head back, swallowing the liquor in one long gulp. The alcohol burned a hot trail down her throat.

The liquor hit her bloodstream fast. The hard edges of the room began to blur, her eyes growing heavy and unfocused.

She ordered three more drinks, downing them back-to-back. The crushing weight on her chest finally shattered under the weight of the alcohol.

She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. The bright screen hurt her eyes in the dim lighting of the bar.

Her thumb slipped twice before she found the contact saved as "Iceberg" in her phone.

Amiya realized what she was doing and lunged across the table to grab the phone, but the call was already connecting.

Miles away, Carter was sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table in the Finley Group's top-floor boardroom, leading a tense executive meeting.

His phone buzzed against the wood. The screen lit up with Evelyn's name.

Carter's jaw tightened. Wanting to prove his absolute control over his emotions to the room, he picked up the device and pressed it to his ear, explicitly choosing not to use the speakerphone.

The faint, chaotic bass of the speakeasy leaked from the earpiece. Evelyn's drunk, breathy laugh drifted to him, mocking his pathetic display of anger in the hotel room that morning.

She didn't stop there. Through the private line, she loudly insulted his performance in bed, claiming he had severe psychological issues.

She told him, clearly and directly, that he lacked the basic physical capability to satisfy a woman.

The dozen senior executives in the room collectively sucked in a breath, their eyes dropping to their notepads, terrified to even breathe as they watched the blood drain from Carter's face.

His expression became a mask of pure ice, the muscles in his jaw bulging as he ground his teeth together, offering only a freezing, dead silence in response.

He pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up, but Evelyn had already ended the call.

The dial tone beeped loudly in his hand. Carter slammed the device down onto the table so hard the glass screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.

Back in the bar, Evelyn tossed her phone onto the table. She buried her face in her arms and laughed hysterically, while hot tears soaked into her sleeves.