He Cheated With My Sister, I Took His Fortune

Chapter 2

Evelyn couldn't sleep a wink.

Tossing and turning, she watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling, resigned to staring at them alone until dawn.

Then, the sharp buzz of the doorbell broke the silence.

She opened the door to find Julian standing on the threshold.

He held up a brown paper bag, a boyish, triumphant grin lighting up his face like a kid showing off a prize. "Matcha crepe cake. From that spot in Brooklyn you love. Managed to snag the very last slice right before they flipped the sign to closed."

Instead of taking it, Evelyn merely leaned against the doorframe, her posture dripping with feigned indifference. "It's past midnight. Aren't you afraid of being seen?"

Julian didn't answer right away. His gaze locked onto hers, burning with an intensity that made her breath hitch, while a slow smirk played on his lips.

"Afraid of what? Isn't Adrian currently living it up in Miami with another woman?" He paused, taking a deliberate step into her space until his warm breath brushed against the shell of her ear. "Besides, he already signed the divorce papers."

Evelyn's heart skipped a beat.

Taking advantage of her momentary daze, Julian gently slid the paper bag into her hands.

His fingers brushed against hers, leaving a trail of electric sparks in their wake.

By the time Evelyn walked back into the living room with the plated cake, Julian was already pacing near the sofa, a phone pressed to his ear.

The playful charm was gone, replaced by a ruthless, dark gravity she had never seen in him before.

"It's time," Julian murmured into the receiver. "Close the net on Adrian."

Evelyn froze. "Julian, what are you doing?"

He glanced back at her, his eyes unreadable. "What do you think?"

Three days later.

Adrian's voice came crackling through the phone line. "Sotheby's is hosting a private auction tonight, and I managed to secure two VIP passes. Haven't you been dying to see Monet's Water Lilies? Let's call this... an anniversary peace offering."

Evelyn let the silence stretch for two agonizing seconds before quietly agreeing.

When she stepped out of the estate, the chauffeur was already holding the rear door open with practiced deference.

But as she approached, she noticed a flash of pastel in the front.

Layla was sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, wearing a delicate pink cocktail dress.

She turned around to face Evelyn, offering a smile that was engineered to look innocent, though her eyes danced with pure, unadulterated smugness.

Right below the windshield sat a custom leather nameplate, aggressively embossed with gold lettering: [Layla.]

Evelyn's gaze turned ice-cold.

From the driver's seat, Adrian spoke with casual nonchalance, as if his request were the most reasonable thing in the world. "Evelyn, just take the back. Layla gets carsick easily, so she's more comfortable up front. Plus, she's your sister. Cut her some slack."

Layla chimed in instantly, her voice a soft, breathless whine. "I'm so sorry, Evelyn. I've just been feeling so under the weather today. Thank you for understanding!"

Evelyn let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "And why exactly should I cut her any slack?"

Adrian's brows knit into an immediate scowl. "Layla is your father's daughter, too. She's suffered enough carrying the stigma of being an illegitimate child all these years. As her older sister, shouldn't you be trying to make it up to her?"

"Well, who told her and her mother to have such wretched luck?" Evelyn looked directly at Adrian, her eyes brimming with scorn. "Am I right, Adrian?"

Adrian's face twisted into an ugly grimace. "How can you be so heartless?"

"What? Feeling protective? Do you... actually have feelings for my bastard sister?"

It was as if Evelyn had stepped right on his tail. Adrian shot a panicked, defensive glance at Layla, his jaw twitching, but he ultimately choked back his words.

Evelyn didn't waste another second.

Reaching into the front seat, she snatched the leather nameplate and flung it into a roadside trash can without a backward glance.

Turning to the startled chauffeur, she commanded coldly, "If rubbish like this ever appears in this vehicle again, throw it out immediately. A Vale family car is no place for an outsider to plaster their name."

"Yes, Ma'am," the chauffeur replied, bowing his head instantly.

"Bring around my new car," Evelyn added. "I feel like driving myself today."

"Right away, Ma'am."

Layla's face drained of all color.

Tears welled up in her eyes on cue, and she bit her lower lip, looking thoroughly victimized.

Yet Adrian, unusually subdued, kept his mouth shut—a silence that left Layla suffocating in her own humiliation.

The driveway at Sotheby's was a blur of flashing lights, luxury, and high-society glamour.

But the moment Layla stepped out of the car in front of the mingling crowd, she let out a delicate gasp, staggering dramatically as tears threatened to spill.

"Adrian, these shoes... they're chafing so badly. I can't walk another step."

Distressed, Adrian dropped to one knee right there on the pavement to check her ankle.

When Evelyn stepped out of her own car, she was greeted by the spectacle of her husband scooping Layla up into his arms, carrying her away in full view of the elite.

As he brushed past Evelyn, he threw out a frantic excuse. "Your sister's feet are hurt. I'm taking her to change her shoes. Wait for us at the entrance."

Evelyn didn't even blink.

She turned on her heel and walked straight through the main doors of the venue alone.

Gliding up to the third floor with a flute of champagne in hand, she stopped in front of Monet's Water Lilies—the masterpiece she had once yearned for so deeply—and quietly took it in.

Behind her, the sharp click-clack of stilettos broke her solitude.

"Oh my dear sister."

Layla slipped into her periphery, that doe-eyed, innocent mask firmly back in place. "Must hurt pretty badly, having your front seat stolen like that, huh?"

Evelyn kept her eyes anchored to the canvas, treating the girl as if she were nothing but background noise.

Refusing to be ignored, Layla took a step closer, dropping her voice to a venomous whisper, "You know, Evelyn... years ago, when Adrian and I were together, he told me I looked best in pink. Every single piece of clothing he bought you after that? All pink. Didn't you ever wonder why?"

She leaned in, a nasty triumph in her eyes. "Did you really think those jewels and bags were meant for you? Please. They were all bought with me in mind. I just felt sorry for you, so I let him give them to you to play with for a while."

Evelyn finally turned her head.

Her gaze was dead, calm, and utterly detached—as if she were staring at a corpse.

Suddenly, a wry smile touched her lips, and she arched a single, elegant brow. "Why do you waste so much breath talking? Even if I throw Adrian out with the trash, he can never give you a legal title. You're just like your mother, Layla—destined to spend your miserable life as a mistress hidden in the shadows."

"Shut up!"

The words struck a nerve, shattering Layla's fragile composure.

Her pretty face contorted into something hideous, and she raised her hand, swinging wildly to slap Evelyn across the face.

Evelyn's eyes flashed with ice. Swiftly and with unerring accuracy, she caught Layla by the wrist, locking it in place.

Before Layla could even register what had happened, Evelyn delivered two vicious backhands straight across her face.

Slap! Slap!

Each strike rang out crisper, harder, and far more punishing than the last.