Chapter 168

The clock struck eight when Nathaniel arrived at the Moonlight Hotel.

The receptionist handed him a keycard to Suite 808 with a polite smile. "The lady guest arranged this earlier," she informed him.

Nathaniel took the elevator up, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floors. The suite door clicked open to reveal lavish interiors bathed in warm lighting.

No one greeted him in the sitting area. Only the rhythmic sound of running water from the bathroom broke the silence.

His dark gaze flickered toward the frosted glass door where a feminine silhouette moved behind the steam. He clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes away.

The dining table caught his attention instead. Six steaming dishes and a fragrant soup were arranged with care. His brows lifted in surprise.

Had Evelyn actually cooked for him? Theodore had mentioned her occasional kitchen experiments, but Nathaniel never imagined the spoiled brat could produce something edible.

A handwritten note rested beside the cutlery:

*Dearest Mr. Grayson,

Please enjoy the meal while it's hot.

I'll join you shortly after freshening up.

E*

"Dearest?" Nathaniel's lips twitched. Since when did the little hellion use endearments?

He sat at the table, unfolding the napkin with deliberate movements. The first bite surprised him—not Michelin-star quality, but far from disastrous. There was something... comforting about the flavors.

Between bites, his mind wandered. Twenty days. That's all it took for Evelyn Whitmore to carve a space in his regimented life. Her defiant smirks, the way her nose scrunched when annoyed, even her infuriating comebacks—all inexplicably endearing.

The memory of their heated kiss surfaced unbidden. His fingers tightened around the fork. Perhaps it was time to reconsider their arrangement.

The bathroom door swung open.

Cassandra emerged wrapped in a towel, feigning shock when she spotted him. "Oh! Mr. Grayson! I didn't realize you'd arrived already—"

Nathaniel's chair scraped back violently. "You."

Cassandra blinked. "Who else would invite you to dinner?" She took a calculated step forward, letting the towel slip just as she pretended to stumble. "Oh! My ankle—"

Nathaniel didn't move to help. His voice turned glacial. "Where. Is. Evelyn?"