Chapter Fourteen: The Rise of Evelyn Winterborne

It had been a week.

Seven full days since the announcement.

Seven full days since the world lost its mind over the so-called "breakup" of a fake engagement that was never meant to matter. Since the headlines labeled her a climber, a gold-digger, a scandal-in-heels.

The first two days had hit hard. Evelyn couldn't scroll through her phone without seeing some exaggerated quote or an out-of-context photo with some garbage title like "Winterborne's Web of Lies."

But by day three?

She stopped flinching.

By day four?

She started smiling at the reporters.

By day five?

She was calling out their typos.

Now?

She was a walking, talking PR nightmare—for them.

Monday morning.

Evelyn stepped out of the subway like a damn storm in stilettos.

Dark green blazer cinched at the waist. High ponytail. Lipstick the color of blood and war. A coffee in one hand. An iPad in the other.

The paparazzi were outside Thornton Tower as usual, but they'd started to hesitate now. Like kids who'd gotten burned one too many times.

Because Evelyn wasn't the scared, confused girl who stumbled into the corporate lion's den.

She was the lion now.

And this lion had teeth.

"Miss Winterborne!"

"Any comments on the rumors that the engagement ended because of you?"

"Did you really get fired from three other assistant jobs?"

"Sources say Mr. Thornton is seeing someone else—"

She stopped.

Turned.

The cameras clicked like mad.

Evelyn took a lazy sip of her coffee.

"Oh, honey," she purred, eyeing the reporter with a sympathetic tilt of her head. "You need better sources."

A collective intake of breath.

"I mean, it's cute," she continued. "How you try to twist things. But I'm not the one who should be worried about being 'let go.' You might wanna check with your editor. Heard he's not thrilled with sloppy work."

Blink. Blink. Silence.

She walked away with a wink and a toss of her ponytail, heels slicing the pavement like daggers.

Inside the building, the energy was... different.

There was still gossip, sure. Whispers. Side glances.

But there was also respect.

Reluctant. Begrudging. Even fearful.

Because Evelyn had something no PR spin could kill:

Evidence.

Receipts. Emails. A memory sharper than a guillotine. And no hesitation when it came to using any of it.

Just last Friday, a particularly arrogant board member had tried to suggest—loudly—that she was unfit for her position and a "distraction" to the company's goals.

Evelyn had smiled sweetly.

Then pulled out a file from her bag with his name on it.

And read—verbatim—an expense report detailing a very generous billing of "client entertainment" at a luxury hotel in Paris, charged to the company card... for a trip where there were no clients.

The boardroom had gone silent.

The man had turned purple.

She had walked out with a Diet Coke and an extra sassy strut.

Now? No one dared breathe in her direction without double-checking their last three memos.

Back at her desk, Evelyn was calmly sorting through color-coded schedules for the week.

Theodore hadn't said much in the last couple of days—not since the bouquet and the phone.

But she noticed how his eyes followed her more. How his jaw would tick when someone spoke to her with anything less than respect.

He hadn't apologized again.

He hadn't needed to.

Not when he replaced the entire PR team by Friday night and made sure her name didn't show up on a single new headline.

He was trying—in his cold, broody, "I'd rather die than say I care" sort of way.

And Evelyn?

She wasn't ready to forgive him.

But she'd stopped wanting to throw a stapler at his face. So, progress.

At noon, she headed to the elevator for a board presentation. She was supposed to sit quietly in the back, take notes, and hand Theodore a bottle of water every fifteen minutes like some kind of executive houseplant.

But she had other plans.

The room was packed when she entered. Mostly men. Mostly suits. All skeptical eyes and clipped voices.

They saw her and smirked.

She smirked back.

And then she took a seat next to Theodore.

Right at the table.

Not in the back.

Not by the wall.

At. The. Table.

No one said a word—but the air thickened like a thunderstorm was about to roll in.

The meeting began.

One board member launched into a half-assed presentation on quarterly projections and "image recovery strategy." Another spoke of "distancing the brand from viral distractions."

Evelyn didn't speak.

Not at first.

She waited.

Waited until they were suggesting tightening interview protocols and implementing "public behavior clauses."

Then, she leaned forward.

"Are you saying employees should have their social lives monitored by HR?" she asked sweetly.

Everyone turned.

"I'm saying we need to be cautious about optics," the man stammered.

"Great. Then let's talk optics," she said, pulling a paper from her folder. "This is a tweet from your niece's account—where she's clearly doing body shots off a bartender at a branded company retreat."

Dead silence.

"Should we talk about that? Or is this only about my optics?"

Someone dropped a pen.

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

Theodore coughed—was that a laugh he was hiding?

The board member turned red.

"I—of course that's—irrelevant."

"Exactly," she said, dropping the paper. "So's my breakup."

Mic. Dropped.

After the meeting, she walked out without waiting for anyone. Head high. Shoulders back.

She made it to the elevator when she heard his voice behind her.

"You like to burn things down, don't you?"

She didn't turn.

"Only the rotten stuff."

There was a pause.

Then, "That was impressive."

She looked over her shoulder finally.

"I'm not here to impress you, Theodore."

His lips twitched. "Who says you haven't?"

She stepped into the elevator and let the doors close on his amused expression.

She would not smile. She would not smile.

Okay. Maybe a little.

Later that evening, she was back at her apartment, feet on the coffee table, laptop on her lap. An open pack of cookies sat beside a notebook titled "Operation: World Domination (With Snacks)."

A new headline popped up on her screen:

"Winterborne's Warpath: Former Fiancée or Future Power Player?"

She laughed.

Then typed:
Winterborne 1 – Corporate World 0

And hit post.

End of Chapter Fourteen