The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 49

At seven-twenty, the taxi pulled up to the entrance of Westmount Estates.

"Miss, I won't drive in. The security registration is too much of a hassle," the driver said apologetically.

"That's fine, I'll get out here." Evelyn paid the fare and stepped out of the car.

The autumn night wind instantly enveloped her, carrying the scent of drying leaves. She pulled her beige trench coat tighter and, briefcase in hand, walked toward the luxuriously illuminated estate grounds.

The security guard at the gatehouse leaned out as soon as he saw her. "Mrs. Lancaster? You're back?"

It was a familiar face, Mr. Weaver, who had worked here for years.

Evelyn gave him a slight nod. "Good evening, Mr. Weaver."

"Good evening!" Mr. Weaver hurriedly opened the pedestrian gate. "Why are you walking? Want me to have the patrol cart take you? It's a good seven or eight-minute walk to the main estate."

"No thank you, the walk will be good for me," Evelyn declined gently. "Thanks anyway."

She passed through the wrought-iron gates and stepped onto the paved road winding deep into the estates. Towering sycamores lined the path, their leaves rustling in the night breeze, while the streetlamps cast a warm, hazy glow that stretched her lonely shadow across the asphalt.

She had walked this path many times. When she was first married, Penelope would summon her back every week for a "family gathering," and she would always walk this stretch alone. Back then, she would feel anxious, racking her brain over how to handle her mother-in-law's hostility and how to maintain the facade of peace without angering Christian.

Later, she came to understand that no matter what she did, the outcome would always be the same.

Her footsteps echoed on the silent road. Evelyn walked at a measured pace, her gaze sweeping over the familiar mansions. Some glowed with warm light, radiating faint laughter; others sat in total darkness, their owners likely out networking.

This was a so-called "elite neighborhood," where every door hid its own triumphs and tragedies, carefully concealed from the world.

Eight minutes later, the familiar carved iron gates of the Lancaster estate appeared before her.

The gates were ajar, the courtyard ablaze with light. Warm yellow light poured from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main house, and the sounds of conversation drifted out—Lyra's soft voice, a child's bright giggles, and Penelope's piercing tones.

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