Chapter 7
*(Evelyn's POV)*
Three months after I left Luca, I was a different person.
Not just on the outside — though yes, the tailored clothes, the personal trainer, the nutritionist had transformed my appearance. The real change was deeper. I'd remembered who I was before him. Before the contract, before the rooftop, before I'd shrunk myself small enough to fit into the box he'd made for me.
I was presenting at a medical innovation summit in Geneva when my assistant leaned in and whispered, "Ms. Ashford, Castellano Group requested a meeting. Again."
"Again?" That was the fourth time this month.
"His office says it's regarding the pharmaceutical partnership. They want to renegotiate terms."
I almost smiled. "Decline."
"Yes, ma'am."
I knew what he was doing. He wasn't trying to renegotiate business. He was trying to get me in a room. And I refused to give him that.
After the summit, I attended a cocktail reception hosted by one of the Ashford Group's partners — the Harrington family. Their eldest son, Sebastian, found me by the champagne tower.
"Evelyn Ashford." He grinned — easy, warm, annoyingly charming. "I've heard a lot about you. The prodigal heiress. The medical genius. The woman who made Luca Castellano lose nine percent of his stock value in a week."
"That last one wasn't intentional," I said. "It was just business."
"Even better." He clinked his glass against mine. "The best revenge is always unintentional."
I found myself laughing — genuinely laughing — for the first time in months.
Sebastian was everything Luca wasn't. Open. Straightforward. When he looked at me, he saw *me* — not a convenience, not a placeholder, not a body to calm his blood fury.
We exchanged numbers. He texted me that night: *[Dinner Friday? Somewhere with terrible wine so you'll have something to complain about.]*
I agreed.
Friday came. I was twenty minutes into a surprisingly enjoyable dinner when the restaurant door opened, and my blood went cold.
Luca Castellano stood in the entrance. Black suit. Dark eyes scanning the room with the intensity of a hunter.
His gaze found me. Then slid to Sebastian. Then back to me.
Something dangerous flickered across his face.
He walked straight to our table.
"Evelyn." His voice was low, controlled — but I knew that tone. It was the tone before the fury.
Sebastian stood, offering his hand. "Castellano, right? Sebastian Harrington. I don't think we've—"
Luca ignored him entirely. His eyes were locked on mine.
"We need to talk."
"No," I said, and took a sip of wine. "We don't."
His jaw tightened. I watched his hands — the slight tremor. The episode was building. I could always tell.
In another life, I would have stood. Would have touched him. Would have whispered his name and pulled him back from the edge.
Instead, I set my glass down and said calmly to Sebastian, "I'm sorry about this. Shall we try the dessert menu?"
Sebastian, to his credit, read the room perfectly and sat back down. "I hear the tiramisu is worth killing for."
Luca's breathing went ragged.
"Evelyn." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Please."
It was the first time I'd ever heard him say that word.
I looked up at the man I'd spent three years loving, three years shrinking for, three years dying for.
"You're causing a scene, Mr. Castellano," I said. "I'd suggest you leave before I call security."
The tremor in his hands worsened. His eyes darkened — that awful black creeping in at the edges.
He was going to break. Right here, in public.
For one second — just one — my chest ached with the old instinct. *Help him. Calm him. He needs you.*
Then I remembered my mother's cold hand. The flat line on the monitor. Bianca's voice on the phone saying *it's not urgent.*
I turned my back to him and smiled at Sebastian. "Tiramisu sounds perfect."
Behind me, I heard Luca's ragged breath — then the sharp sound of his footsteps retreating. A glass shattered somewhere near the entrance.
I didn't flinch.
Sebastian watched the door close, then looked at me with something between admiration and concern. "You want to tell me what that was about?"
"Ancient history," I said. "Let's leave it buried."
Three months after I left Luca, I was a different person.
Not just on the outside — though yes, the tailored clothes, the personal trainer, the nutritionist had transformed my appearance. The real change was deeper. I'd remembered who I was before him. Before the contract, before the rooftop, before I'd shrunk myself small enough to fit into the box he'd made for me.
I was presenting at a medical innovation summit in Geneva when my assistant leaned in and whispered, "Ms. Ashford, Castellano Group requested a meeting. Again."
"Again?" That was the fourth time this month.
"His office says it's regarding the pharmaceutical partnership. They want to renegotiate terms."
I almost smiled. "Decline."
"Yes, ma'am."
I knew what he was doing. He wasn't trying to renegotiate business. He was trying to get me in a room. And I refused to give him that.
After the summit, I attended a cocktail reception hosted by one of the Ashford Group's partners — the Harrington family. Their eldest son, Sebastian, found me by the champagne tower.
"Evelyn Ashford." He grinned — easy, warm, annoyingly charming. "I've heard a lot about you. The prodigal heiress. The medical genius. The woman who made Luca Castellano lose nine percent of his stock value in a week."
"That last one wasn't intentional," I said. "It was just business."
"Even better." He clinked his glass against mine. "The best revenge is always unintentional."
I found myself laughing — genuinely laughing — for the first time in months.
Sebastian was everything Luca wasn't. Open. Straightforward. When he looked at me, he saw *me* — not a convenience, not a placeholder, not a body to calm his blood fury.
We exchanged numbers. He texted me that night: *[Dinner Friday? Somewhere with terrible wine so you'll have something to complain about.]*
I agreed.
Friday came. I was twenty minutes into a surprisingly enjoyable dinner when the restaurant door opened, and my blood went cold.
Luca Castellano stood in the entrance. Black suit. Dark eyes scanning the room with the intensity of a hunter.
His gaze found me. Then slid to Sebastian. Then back to me.
Something dangerous flickered across his face.
He walked straight to our table.
"Evelyn." His voice was low, controlled — but I knew that tone. It was the tone before the fury.
Sebastian stood, offering his hand. "Castellano, right? Sebastian Harrington. I don't think we've—"
Luca ignored him entirely. His eyes were locked on mine.
"We need to talk."
"No," I said, and took a sip of wine. "We don't."
His jaw tightened. I watched his hands — the slight tremor. The episode was building. I could always tell.
In another life, I would have stood. Would have touched him. Would have whispered his name and pulled him back from the edge.
Instead, I set my glass down and said calmly to Sebastian, "I'm sorry about this. Shall we try the dessert menu?"
Sebastian, to his credit, read the room perfectly and sat back down. "I hear the tiramisu is worth killing for."
Luca's breathing went ragged.
"Evelyn." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Please."
It was the first time I'd ever heard him say that word.
I looked up at the man I'd spent three years loving, three years shrinking for, three years dying for.
"You're causing a scene, Mr. Castellano," I said. "I'd suggest you leave before I call security."
The tremor in his hands worsened. His eyes darkened — that awful black creeping in at the edges.
He was going to break. Right here, in public.
For one second — just one — my chest ached with the old instinct. *Help him. Calm him. He needs you.*
Then I remembered my mother's cold hand. The flat line on the monitor. Bianca's voice on the phone saying *it's not urgent.*
I turned my back to him and smiled at Sebastian. "Tiramisu sounds perfect."
Behind me, I heard Luca's ragged breath — then the sharp sound of his footsteps retreating. A glass shattered somewhere near the entrance.
I didn't flinch.
Sebastian watched the door close, then looked at me with something between admiration and concern. "You want to tell me what that was about?"
"Ancient history," I said. "Let's leave it buried."