Chapter Seven: Missing Evelyn & Media Mayhem

Monday morning hit the Thornton Enterprises tower like a caffeine-fueled hurricane.

Phones rang off the hook. PR interns scrambled with papers clutched to their chests. HR had a meeting booked every hour on the hour. And on the 47th floor, the executives were all glued to their phones.

Because the headlines had dropped.

Everywhere.

"Thornton's Mystery Fiancée Steals Spotlight at Maison Noir: Style, Sass, and a Bite of His Dinner!"
"Who Is Evelyn Winterborne? 5 Things to Know About the Woman Who Melted Manhattan's Coldest CEO."
"Theodore Thornton's Fiancée Has a Mouth—and a Past."
"From Fired to Fiancée? Inside Evelyn Winterborne's Rocky Resume."

Click. Click. Click. Scrolling. Swearing.

The glass conference room echoed with a chorus of simultaneous breakdowns.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Dan from PR, tossing a stack of printed articles onto the table. "They're calling her the Assist-antichrist. With a hashtag. It's trending."

"People love her, though," piped up a younger intern from the corner, scrolling through social media. "Like... a lot. There's fan art. A meme with her flipping off the menu. Someone made a TikTok of her saying 'duck ravioli I'll dream of you' and it's got 1.2 million views."

"She also has a Reddit thread titled 'I Would Die for Evelyn Winterborne.'" someone added helpfully.

The head of HR, Marlene, rubbed her temples like she was trying to physically hold her brain inside her skull. "We're going to get sued."

"For what?" Dan asked.

"Doesn't matter. It's Evelyn. She'll find a way."

They all groaned.

Then Marlene looked around, suspicious.

"Wait a minute. Has anyone seen Evelyn today?"

The room paused.

A few heads turned toward the empty chair that had become her usual spot in these chaos-fueled meetings.

Silence.

"...Shit."

Across the building, on the top floor, Theodore Thornton was doing his best impression of a statue carved from cold marble and barely restrained fury.

He'd read every headline. Scrolled through every article. Endured a thirty-minute phone call with his mother who suddenly cared about his love life. And now, as he sat in his glass-walled office, he was waiting for the storm to crash through his door.

The only person who hadn't shown up was the eye of that storm herself.

Evelyn Winterborne.

No coffee. No chaotic presence. No combat boots echoing on the marble floor.

She was gone.

He checked his phone again.

Nothing.

She wasn't answering.

He didn't even know why that irritated him so much.

Scratch that—he did know.

She'd dropped a PR bomb in his lap, made the public fall in love with her, had her entire shady work history aired like dirty laundry—and now, she was missing in action?

She had the nerve to disappear now?

He shoved away from his desk and stormed toward the elevator.

Down in HR, the room had gone from stress to full-blown funeral vibes.

"We're dead," Dan muttered. "The board's calling a meeting. They want to meet her now. Like now-now. And if she doesn't show up? We all go down."

"We hired a woman with three terminations in her file," Marlene growled. "You don't bounce back from that unless you marry the damn CEO."

"She's not even on the company's health insurance yet."

"We're going to be a case study in what not to do."

Then the elevator dinged.

And in came Death himself.

Theodore Thornton.

Jaw tight. Eyes colder than a Russian winter. Energy so lethal it made one intern drop her pen just from the force of his presence.

"Where," he said slowly, dangerously, "is Evelyn Winterborne?"

The silence was immediate.

And complete.

Marlene cleared her throat. "We... we don't know. She hasn't clocked in."

"Did anyone check if she quit?" he snapped.

"She hasn't officially resigned, no," Dan said, adjusting his glasses. "But given the media circus and... well... the entire internet digging into her past—maybe she's just laying low?"

"Or skipping the country," muttered someone under their breath.

Theodore's gaze sliced through the room. "She's not the type to hide."

And God help him, he almost sounded concerned.

He turned on his heel and strode out without another word.

Back to his office. Back to silence.

But not before calling Lewis.

"Find her."

"Sir?"

"Evelyn. Find out if she's home. Check her building. And do not let her dodge me."

"Yes, sir."

He hung up and stared out the window, jaw clenched.

The headlines had been brutal—but effective. His name was trending for the right reasons. Stock was up 3.7%. Public interest had surged. Clients were calling. People wanted to know who Evelyn was.

The problem?

So did he.

He thought he knew chaos. He thought he understood unpredictability.

But Evelyn Winterborne had rewritten the rulebook.

She wasn't just a loose cannon—she was a missile with glitter eyeliner and a sailor's mouth. And while the media was painting her as this irresistible, relatable, don't-give-a-damn firecracker—he couldn't help but see something else.

Something he hadn't expected.

Vulnerability.

Because beneath the sass and the snark, there had been that moment—just one—when he saw it.

At dinner.

When he'd asked if she'd been to a restaurant like that before.

She'd looked away.

Nope, she'd said, with a smile that hadn't quite reached her eyes.

And now?

Now the world had turned their cameras on her, dug up her past, thrown her dirty laundry across headlines—and she was nowhere to be found.

He glanced at the clock.

Still no word.

Still no Evelyn.

Still no damn peace.

So he stood again, grabbed his coat, and marched for the door.

To hell with waiting.

Forty minutes later, Lewis parked the car near the same brownstone in Brooklyn where he'd dropped her off.

Theodore barely waited for the engine to stop before he was out of the car and up the steps.

He knocked once.

No answer.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

Then—just when he was ready to break the door down—a voice came from the side alley.

"Looking for me?"

He turned.

There she was.

Coffee in hand. Hoodie on. Eyes tired, but still sharp.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Out," she said simply.

"Out where?"

"Nowhere important."

"You missed work."

She raised a brow. "You never said I couldn't take a day."

"The entire office is on fire."

"And I didn't start it, for once."

"Your past is being dragged through the media."

She took a slow sip of coffee. "Yeah. Not the first time people have called me unemployable, Teddy."

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Then she sighed.

"I just needed... space. Okay? It's one thing to fake-date a CEO. It's another when the world suddenly wants to know everything about you and why you've been fired more times than you've paid rent."

"You should've told me."

"What? That I'm a hot mess?"

He didn't answer.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't act like you care."

But he did.

He did.

And he hated that.

He stepped closer.

"The media will spin whatever they want. But you don't run. Not from this. Not when you're in the middle of my narrative."

"So that's all this is?" she asked, voice low. "A narrative?"

"Evelyn—"

"I'm not your PR tool, Theodore."

"And I'm not your therapist. But I do expect my assistant to show up."

"You mean your fake fiancée."

"That too."

She smiled, bitter and beautiful. "Then let's go, boss. Time to show the world your hot mess of a fiancée hasn't run off screaming."

He stared at her.

She brushed past him.

And for one fleeting second, he thought—

Maybe I'm not the one in control anymore.

End of Chapter Seven