Chapter 4

Alexander

"Sir, these are the emergency medical aid documents the Foundation needs you to sign today." My assistant handed the folder across to me just as the car pulled up outside the main entrance of a private medical center in New York.

As the head of the Whitmore Foundation, I've funded my share of medical charity projects over the years, but nearly all of it is handled by dedicated teams. I rarely deal with patients and their families in person. Had the director not needed my signature on an urgent document concerning the deployment of a top international oncology specialist, I certainly wouldn't have found myself here at three in the afternoon.

I took the pen, signed my name swiftly at the bottom of the pages, then pushed open the door and stepped out.

The entrance to the hospital's affiliated pharmacy on the ground floor wasn't crowded. I had just started toward the elevators when the glass door of the pharmacy swung open and a woman, head bent over her phone, collided into me before either of us could react.

"Sorry—"

Her voice was faint, her body stumbling backward from the impact. Instinctively, I reached out and caught her arm, steadying her.

"Careful." The moment she found her footing, I let go. But when she lifted her head and our eyes met, I distinctly felt her freeze.

As the Whitmore heir—a fixture in social media and financial headlines for years—I'd long grown used to the way strangers reacted upon recognizing me. Flattery, nervousness, and no shortage of people manufacturing "coincidences" in hopes of striking up a conversation. But this woman was entirely different.

She didn't seize the opportunity to say a single unnecessary word. Instead, after that brief moment of eye contact, she quickly dropped her gaze and even edged back a small step, as if she wanted to avoid so much as a second of unnecessary connection with me.

"Mr. Whitmore? What brings you here in person?"

The voice of the hospital director came from behind me. She hurried over with two doctors in tow, followed my line of sight, and introduced the woman with a smile. "The person you just steadied is Miss Evelyn Carter. She's the family member of a critical oncology patient in Room 302 upstairs. Miss Carter has been staying at the hospital nearly every night to care for her mother. It's been very hard on her."

Evelyn Carter.

I repeated the name silently to myself.

"Miss Carter, this is the chairman of the Whitmore Group, Mr. Alexander Whitmore—the man whose foundation funds our hospital's medical fund," the director said warmly.

I watched her. At the mention of my name, her lashes trembled harder, and the fingers at her side clenched tightly around the prescription slip in her hand.

"Hello, Mr. Whitmore." Her voice was soft, carrying a deliberately maintained sense of distance.

"Hello, Miss Carter." I gave a nod, my gaze passing over her somewhat pale face. "The director tells me your mother is receiving treatment here. If you should need anything further in terms of medical resources or specialist teams, the Foundation can arrange for someone to look into your situation."

In the past, any ordinary person hearing that the Whitmore Foundation was willing to lend a hand would express their gratitude without hesitation—many would even take the chance to ask for more.

But Evelyn only curved her lips slightly and said quietly, "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Whitmore. The hospital's arrangements are already very thorough. I'm grateful."

It was then I noticed that, along with the prescription slip, she held a somewhat worn notebook, its cover faintly inscribed with terminology related to patient psychological support and counseling.

As the head of the Whitmore Foundation's medical projects, I'd always taken an interest in the field of patient mental health.

"You're interested in counseling?" I asked, almost offhandedly.

Evelyn paused, glanced down at the notebook in her hand, then looked back up at me. "I was taking courses to become a counselor, but I put my studies on hold when my mother fell ill."

"Will you continue?"

"Yes." Her answer was firm. "Once my mother's treatment stabilizes, I'll go back to school and finish the rest of my courses."

I studied her, and for the first time a clear impression of this stranger began to form in my mind. She looked slight and pale, as though a gust of wind might knock her over—but when she spoke of her mother and her studies, there was a tenacity in her eyes that made her seem anything but fragile.

"Then I hope your mother recovers soon, and that you're able to return to school before long," I said.

"Thank you. If there's nothing else, I should take the medicine up now. My mother has another test coming up soon." She nodded at me, without the faintest trace of lingering, then turned and walked toward the elevators.

I stood where I was, watching her figure disappear behind the elevator doors, and raised an eyebrow slightly.

"A girl with a strong will," the director beside me said with a sigh. "Her mother is gravely ill, and she's shouldered everything on her own. It hasn't been easy for her."

I said nothing, only withdrew my gaze, turned, and headed toward the office to handle the documents.

After leaving the hospital, I rode back to the Whitmore Group headquarters.

Beyond the car window, the setting sun gilded the skyscrapers of Manhattan with a golden edge. I leaned back in my seat, watching the streetscape rush past, my thoughts drifting.

"Sir," Nathan, my assistant in the passenger seat, turned his head to brief me on the schedule ahead. "The international conference with the London branch this afternoon is all set. Also, word just came from the estate—Mrs. Victoria is in good spirits today. The private physician came by for a follow-up and said she's recovering very well."

At the mention of Victoria's name, my expression softened somewhat.

I thought back to that night at the Manhattan apartment, and everything that had happened.

In the dim bedroom, she had, for the very first time, revealed an unguarded, passionate loss of control. Though she was still a little shy, the way she'd opened her heart to me so completely made me feel, for the first time, that this marriage of ours—built at the outset on mutual interest—might slowly be turning toward something better.

She no longer pushed me away. She was even willing to overcome years of psychological barriers so that we might have a child of our own. That change gave me, as her husband, a sense of comfort, and stirred in me a sense of responsibility I'd never felt before.

"Understood," I answered flatly. "Call the estate and have the chef prepare something light and easy on the stomach for dinner tonight."

"Yes, sir," Nathan replied respectfully.

At nine that evening, I finished the last of the day's work and sat alone in the study on the top floor of the estate, going over the contracts for several cross-border merger cases.

I picked up the black coffee at my elbow and took a sip, my eyes settling on the final page of a contract—yet for some reason, the scene from that afternoon at the private hospital's pharmacy surfaced in my mind once more.

That woman named Evelyn Carter.

The look in her eyes when she'd raised her head and seen me came back to me again, vivid and clear.

It had been such a strange look. If she were a complete stranger who didn't recognize me, she'd have been, at most, a little flustered or embarrassed after bumping into me. And if she did know me—knew that I was the man who held power in the Whitmore family—then she'd more likely have shown deference, or even tried to use the moment to get close.

So why had there been a trace of resistance mixed into her eyes?

Yet my memory was clear: I had never, before that day, met her at any social gathering or business function.

"Evelyn..."

I murmured the name under my breath, my brows drawing together faintly. The question circled in my mind for a few seconds—but soon the private phone on my desk chimed. It was a text from Victoria, asking whether I'd finished work.

I pulled my thoughts back and pressed at the slightly aching space between my brows. Perhaps it was only the strain of her mother's grave illness. Or perhaps I was so accustomed to sizing up everyone who approached me through the lens of self-interest that I'd read too much into the eyes of a stranger's family member.

I didn't dwell any further on this meaningless little episode. Reaching out, I closed my laptop, replied to my wife's message, and switched off the light as I left the study.