Chapter 4 - The Mask Comes OffEvelyn’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
The man in the study—the man she had legally married four days ago under the pretense that he was a rotting corpse on his deathbed—was in his early thirties. He possessed sharp, aristocratic features, a strong jawline shadowed by stubble, and eyes the color of a winter storm.
This wasn't Nathaniel Hawthorne, the ninety-year-old patriarch.
Or... was it?
Before Evelyn could process the impossible math in her head, the man’s voice cut through the air without him even turning around.
“You can stop trying to muffle your breathing, Evelyn. You’ve been standing outside that door for three minutes.”
The blood drained entirely from Evelyn’s face.
She considered running—turning around and sprinting back down the dark hallway to the East Wing. But her legs felt like lead.
The heavy mahogany door swung open.
Nathaniel Hawthorne stood before her. Up close, without the heavy coats, the hunch, and the porcelain mask, he was towering—easily six-foot-two—radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying power that made the enforcers her father owed look like amateur schoolboys.
“Going for a late-night walk in the forbidden zone, Mrs. Hawthorne?” he asked. His voice was smooth, laced with a dangerous amusement that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Evelyn forced her chin up, fighting down the panic clawing at her throat. She refused to cower in front of the man who had bought her life.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice shaking only slightly. “Where is the ninety-year-old man I married? What kind of sick game are you playing?”
Nathaniel didn't flinch. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His stormy eyes swept over her from head to toe, lingering for a fraction of a second on her clenched fists.
“You married Nathaniel Hawthorne,” he said calmly. “My grandfather. Whose name I share.”
Evelyn stared at him, her brain desperately trying to connect the pieces. “Your grandfather... but the marriage certificate—the priest said—”
“The priest said what he was paid to say by my grandfather’s legal team before the old man passed away three weeks ago,” Nathaniel interrupted coldly. “My grandfather was indeed dying. But before he died, he left me a very specific directive: clean up the family’s debts in Providence, secure a wife who couldn't be bought off by Boston’s high society, and inherit the empire.”
“So you traded my father’s debts to trap me?” Evelyn’s voice rose, a sharp edge of fury piercing through her fear. “You lied to me! You had me walk into a chapel thinking I was marrying a corpse just so you could check a box on your inheritance checklist!”
“I didn't lie to you, Evelyn,” Nathaniel countered, stepping closer. The sheer physical presence of him forced her to take an involuntary step back. “Nobody told you he was the groom standing at the altar. You assumed. Your father assumed. Everyone was too busy counting the zeroes on the contract to ask questions.”
“That’s semantic garbage!” she snapped, her eyes flashing with tears of rage. “You bought me! You treated me like property!”
“Property?” Nathaniel’s expression darkened instantly, a sudden flash of dangerous intensity crossing his features. He reached out with terrifying speed, his hand catching her wrist—not crushing it, but holding her firmly in place. “If I wanted property, Evelyn, I would have bought a yacht or a building. I didn't drag you into this house to be a decorative vase.”
“Then why?!” she cried out, her voice echoing down the empty corridor. “Why me? Out of all the desperate people in New York and Boston, why pick a diner waitress whose father plays poker?”
Nathaniel looked down into her eyes, his expression shifting into something unreadable, heavy, and profound.
“Because three months ago, when my grandfather’s life support was being monitored in Boston Medical Center, you were the night-shift nurse who refused to let him die alone when his own blood had abandoned him,” Nathaniel said quietly. “You held his hand and told him stories about your college dreams while he was unresponsive.”
Evelyn’s breath hitched. The memory flashed back—a lonely old man in a VIP room, whispering about cliffs and oceans before slipping away.
May you like
“That was... that was your grandfather?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Nathaniel said, releasing her wrist slowly. “And before he died, he told me that if I ever wanted to find someone in this world with actual honor, I should look for the girl in the faded scrubs who didn't care about the Hawthorne fortune.”
