The Scorned Wife's Secret Billionaire Identity

The lock on Nana's apartment door stuck, requiring a familiar jiggle of the key. Evangeline pushed it open, and the smell hit her instantly-lavender, old paper, and dust. It was the smell of her childhood.

She switched on the light. The small living room in Brooklyn was exactly as Nana had left it. A half-finished knitting project sat on the armchair, the needles still entangled in the blue wool.

Evangeline felt a fresh wave of grief crash over her, but she pushed it down. She didn't have time to cry. She needed proof.

She moved through the apartment with frantic energy. She checked the trash can in the kitchen. Nothing but grocery receipts and tea bags.

She went to the small table by the window where the landline phone sat. The answering machine was blinking. A solitary red light in the dark.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Evangeline pressed the button.

"You have... one... new message," the robotic voice announced. "Yesterday. 2:00 PM."

A beep. Then, a voice that made Evangeline's blood run cold.

"Mrs. Watson, this is Chloie. I'm coming over. We need to discuss Evangeline's future. It would be a shame if she lost everything because of your... stubbornness."

The tone was sickly sweet, dripping with a veiled threat.

Evangeline grabbed her cell phone and recorded the message, making sure the audio was clear. Evidence.

She turned her attention to the tea table. There were two cups sitting there. One was Nana's favorite mug, reading 'World's Best Grandma.' The other was a delicate porcelain teacup Nana saved for guests.

Evangeline leaned in. On the rim of the guest cup, there was a smudge.

Pink.

It was the exact shade of lipstick Chloie favored. Petal Pink.

Evangeline ran to the kitchen, grabbed a Ziploc bag, and carefully maneuvered the cup inside without touching the rim. She sealed it.

"Got you," she whispered.

Suddenly, a sharp cramp seized her abdomen. It wasn't just a flutter; it was a painful twist that made her double over, clutching the edge of the table. She gasped, waiting for it to pass.

Stress, she told herself. It had to be. Stress and not eating properly for days. It was playing havoc with her system.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Unknown Number: Stop digging, or the settlement goes to zero. This is your only warning.

It had to be Cedric's lawyer. Or Cedric himself.

Evangeline typed back: See you in hell.

A knock at the door made her jump. She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. Had they followed her?

She crept to the door and looked through the peephole.

A baseball cap. Blue eyes.

Cliffton King.

Evangeline frowned. She opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

Cliffton held up a small, white plastic inhaler. "You dropped this at the club. When you nearly fainted."

Evangeline patted her purse. Her anxiety medication was gone. She must have dropped it when Cliffton caught her.

"Thank you," she said, reaching through the crack.

"Can I come in?" Cliffton asked. "I think we have a common enemy."

Evangeline hesitated. But looking at his face-there was no malice there. Only curiosity. She undid the chain and opened the door.

Cliffton stepped into the cramped apartment. He looked too big for the room, his presence filling the space. He scanned the photos on the mantle-pictures of Evangeline growing up.

"She raised you?" Cliffton asked, pointing to a photo of Nana.

"Yes. My parents died in a car crash when I was a baby. Foster care gave me to Nana."

"Why do you care, Mr. King?" Evangeline asked, crossing her arms defensively.

Cliffton turned to her. He took off his cap, running a hand through his hair. "You remind me of someone. My mother."

Evangeline scoffed. "I'm an orphan from Brooklyn. No royal blood here."

Cliffton smiled. It was an enigmatic, knowing smile. "Blood tells, Ms. Watson. Sometimes louder than records."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek business card. It was heavy, black with gold embossing. The King family crest.

"If Cedric gives you trouble," Cliffton said, handing it to her. "Call me. Directly."

"Why?"

"Because I hate bullies," Cliffton said smoothly. But his eyes were scanning the hairbrush sitting on the hallway table. He made a mental note.

"I have to go," Evangeline said, feeling overwhelmed.

"Keep the card," Cliffton said. He turned to leave. As he passed the table, his hand brushed against the hairbrush. In a movement too fast for Evangeline to track, he snagged a few strands of loose hair.

He closed the door behind him.

Evangeline stood in the silence, clutching the Ziploc bag in one hand and the King card in the other. She felt confused, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, she didn't feel entirely powerless.