Chapter 8

Annabelle froze for half a second before lifting her chin. "Alexander and I have known each other for over twenty years. Everyone knows we're just close friends. Are you really that insecure, Dr. Carter? Should men and women never be friends at all?"

Evelyn met her gaze steadily. "Friendship between genders is fine. But you're both married now. Boundaries matter."

Annabelle scoffed. "Weren't you the one who always says 'doctors have no gender'? Last week when that male anesthesiologist rushed into your OR, why didn't you fuss about propriety then?"

"That was an emergency!"

"How urgent could it be?" Annabelle arched a brow. "More important than two decades of friendship?"

Evelyn's fists clenched. "You were hemorrhaging. Any longer and we would've lost the baby."

"Convenient," Annabelle sneered. "You're the doctor—you can say whatever you want."

"Enough!" Alexander Hamilton staggered to his feet, the alcohol making him unsteady. He shoved his keys into Evelyn's hand, voice hoarse. "She's hormonal. Don't take it personally."

Evelyn didn't accept them, staring into his eyes instead. "Are you really just friends?"

His Adam's apple bobbed before he looked away. "Let's go home."

As Evelyn helped him into the car, she noticed Annabelle sliding into the backseat, carefully draping a jacket over his shoulders.

"I thought you got carsick, Miss Taylor. The front would be more comfortable."

Annabelle buckled her seatbelt with a serene smile. "I'm fine today. It's no trouble."

Headlights cut through the night. Evelyn's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

Back at the Hamilton estate, Margaret was already asleep. Evelyn had just guided Alexander up the stairs when Annabelle's voice rang out behind them. "Aren't you taking his jacket?"

"Leave it on the sofa. I'll deal with it tomorrow."

"Don't you have morning rounds?" Annabelle crossed her arms. "What kind of wife neglects her husband's laundry?"

Evelyn turned, voice barely above a whisper. "First, folding clothes takes five minutes. Second, Margaret's asleep. Do you really want to shout the house down?"

"Aunt Margaret wouldn't—"

"Annabelle!" Alexander cut in sharply, massaging his temples. "Just leave the damn jacket. Go to bed."

Her face darkened. "After everything I did for you tonight—covering your drinks, fetching your coat—this is how you treat me?"

"What do you want from me?" His voice was glacial. "Should I prioritize my 'bro' or my wife?"

His grip on Evelyn's wrist as he hauled her upstairs was bruising, like years of suppressed emotions were finally breaking through.

Under the shower's scalding spray, Evelyn watched the red marks on her skin fade. She changed into long-sleeved pajamas only to find Alexander missing from their bedroom.

The man on the balcony exhaled cigarette smoke, his tailored suit clashing with the haze around him. Hearing her approach, he hastily stubbed out the cigarette but found no ashtray.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Quit years ago." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Bad for your health."

The excuse sounded rehearsed. When he passed her, the scent of tobacco mixed with alcohol was overwhelming.

His phone lit up on the coffee table.

[Annabelle: Your wife's got a sharp tongue. Even I couldn't outtalk her.]

[Annabelle: Can't sleep. Watch the stars with me like we used to?]

[Annabelle: Last chance to reply before I cut you off for good.]

The screen's glow reflected in Evelyn's eyes—cold as embers.