Chapter 425

"About that..." He hesitated before continuing, "I didn't provoke her. She's the one who made this impossible for me. The court of public opinion has already ruled—sympathy won't change anything."

"Everyone believes Evelyn now. If product returns keep flooding in at this rate, DR Holdings is finished."

"You—" The fury nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. Genevieve Sinclair didn't respond immediately. Instead, the sharp click of heels echoed through the phone—she was searching for a private space. Once secured, her voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "She had nothing to do with the strategy I gave you! You know exactly who backs her, yet you still poke the bear? Are you actively trying to destroy yourself?"

"I told you—I didn't start this. She struck first. No matter how much I play the victim now, nobody will buy it!" Dominic Reeves sounded utterly defeated.

Genevieve scoffed. "Spare me the act. You're not a victim—you're a fool."

Dominic had no rebuttal.

"Enough," Genevieve snapped. "I'll look into the situation. Don't call unless it's critical." A pause. Then, colder: "Actually, don't call at all. I'm occupied. I'll reach out when I have time."

The line went dead. Dominic stared at his phone, the dial tone mocking him. The call had only deepened his despair—no solutions, just scathing judgment.

He couldn't stay passive. The internet had turned him into a spectacle.

The hottest debates revolved around two scandals: whether Evelyn Carter or Vanessa Blake was the true creator of DR Holdings' early perfumes, and whether Dominic and Vanessa had conspired to steal Evelyn's work.

The second burning topic? Whether Dominic had ever loved Evelyn—or if Vanessa was the other woman. Theories about his lies spread like wildfire.

Most issues stemmed from these two. Solve them, and the rest would crumble.

The love triangle was personal, but the perfume scandal was professional suicide. He'd brushed it off before, but now? The evidence was damning.

Dominic knew the truth. He just never expected Evelyn to have such irrefutable proof.

After agonizing deliberation, he decided honesty might be his only lifeline. Criminals who confessed got lighter sentences—maybe a public apology and self-flagellation would salvage his reputation.

The idea solidified. He couldn't wait for Genevieve—who knew when she'd bother with him again? Every second of inaction tightened the noose.

He lunged for his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. The document title glared back at him: "My Apology."

The next morning, Evelyn walked into her office and froze. A massive wooden crate sat on her chair, nailed shut with no visible seams.

"Whose is this?" she asked.

"Yours," a colleague chimed in. "Security delivered it at dawn. It's heavy—had to wheel it up."

Evelyn circled the box, frowning. No shipping label, no sender info—just her name scrawled in black marker:

Evelyn Carter.

It was addressed to her, but who would send something this enormous unannounced?

"Evelyn," someone called, "what's inside?"