Undressed By His Arrogance-Chapter 239: I Don’t Like It

Winn’s brows crept up, confusion tightening his expression. "I don’t like it."

"What’s not to like? You got what you want." He began collecting the documents with a smooth efficiency.

"Sharona is not the type to walk away without the last words. I don’t like it."

"Well, let’s take this win, Winn. We deal with whatever comes next."

Winn rubbed a hand over his tensed jaw. The relief he’d expected—the explosion of triumph, the cathartic release—didn’t fully arrive. Instead, a steady hum of anxiety pushed against his ribs. Sharona walking away quietly?

But the divorce papers felt real beneath his fingers. Solid. Heavy. Final.

Winn exhaled. He was finally free. After over a year, he was free.

And the reason stood in his mind with more clarity than the signatures on those papers.

Ivy.

The woman who had walked back into his life. The woman with fire in her spine, scars in her heart.

Ivy did this.

She did this even when she claimed she was done with him.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath, staring at the papers again. "How the hell did she do it?"

*****

Right outside, Heathcliffe and Associates’ office, Raphael stood beneath the shade of the towering glass building. He tugged at his shirt collar, pulse thudding in his throat as he dialed the number he now regretted ever saving.

Tom Kane answered.

"Hey," Raphael began cautiously, glancing around to ensure no prying eyes or ears lingered. "You were right. Winn used the files Ivy got to facilitate the divorce. Sharona had no choice but to sign it."

A low exhale crackled through the receiver.

"Things are aligning perfectly. I just got news that there was a hit and run in front of Everest Headquarters a few minutes ago."

Raphael tightened his grip on the phone. His stomach twisted. "Yes," he said. "I did as you said. I sent a message to Sharona’s guy by cloning her phone number and gave him the instructions."

"Were you specific he was not to kill her?"

Raphael felt the hair on his arms rise. "Yes. What next?"

"Send the files discreetly to the press and we wait for Sharona to self-destruct. And we both walk away clean. No one the wiser."

Raphael swallowed hard.

"Right. You seem to know what you are doing." Raphael said.

He hung up the phone quickly, as if keeping the line open might allow Tom’s voice to crawl through it and wrap cold fingers around his throat.

He leaned against the back of the firm’s tinted-glass façade and exhaled shakily.

He hadn’t intended to end up in this hellish web. He was a glorified assistant—managing schedules, answering emails, picking up Maurice’s dry-cleaning—not dabbling in all these bullshit. But Tom? Tom scared him in ways he didn’t even have vocabulary for.

Between Sharona and Tom, Raphael feared Tom more.

Sharona’s madness was loud—screaming, throwing, clawing. Predictable in its chaos.

Tom’s madness was surgical—silent, calculating.

Going this far was survival.

Entirely self-preservation.

Raphael rubbed his face, feeling older than he was.

He needed an exit plan.

Because men like Tom Kane never left loose ends—

and Raphael was starting to realize one day he might just become one.

*****

Evans was a complete wreck when he got the news. One second he was reviewing reports, sipping coffee; the next, Mrs Dale burst into his office pale and shaking. She barely made sense before Evans was already out the door. How could something so catastrophic happen right outside his building—and they only informed him minutes later? By the time he burst through the sliding doors of Angel Dove Hospital, the man looked unhinged, eyes wild, tie crooked, hair disheveled from gripping it all the way there.

He breezed into the hospital, breath loud in his ears, heart pounding a war drum. Nurses scattered out of his way.

When he found her bodyguard standing stiffly in the lobby, Evans marched toward him with rage carved into every step. Without hesitation, he grabbed the guard by the collar, slamming him lightly against the wall.

"You have one job! One job! Keep my niece safe!!!"

"I was getting the car from the garage. She wanted to ride with Mr Rothschild," the guard stuttered, eyes wide, throat bobbing.

"Fucking excuses! I swear to God if anything happens to her, I will have your head!!!" Evans snarled.

"She is having a cast put on her arm," the man managed to explain.

Evans’s eyes darkened. "Fucking useless, incompetent fool. You are fired! Effective immediately!" He released the man with a shove, sending him stumbling backward.

Evans stormed to the reception desk, aura crackling. "Ivy Morales," he demanded.

"She is fine. She is in the emergency waiting room. Mr Eugene Rothschild is in surgery, she is waiting for him." She spoke gently, as if Evans was a bomb that needed careful handling.

Relief battled with fury in his chest. Ivy was alive. Injured, but alive.

Evans ran all the way down the hospital corridor, his tie flapping behind him. His eyes landed on her, her arm in a sling, sitting in the waiting room, eyes wide and glistening with tears.

"Ivy!" he shouted.

"Uncle Evans!" Ivy cried. Despite the pain radiating from her arm and the shock of the accident, she threw herself forward. Evans surged ahead, and wrapped her in a hug as carefully as he could, afraid of aggravating her injury. His strong arms enveloped her.

"You’re okay. God! Thank God, you’re okay!" His hand instinctively brushed her uninjured arm, making sure it was intact. Relief burned in him.

"Eugene... he is in surgery. He has a fracture. Evans, he saved my life."

"What do you mean?" Evans asked.

"The car targeted me! Evans." Ivy’s eyes glimmered with terror.

Evans’ blood ran cold, ice trailing down his spine as he processed the information. His mind flashed through possibilities. His eye twitched involuntarily, the muscle pulsing with pent-up fury. "Then how did Eugene get hurt?"

Ivy winced as she recounted the sequence again, and Evans’ jaw tightened. "He took a hit... for you?" He couldn’t help but whisper.