Undressed By His Arrogance

Irene’s eyes widened, her whole body going still as if her mind needed a full minute to recalibrate the image of the man in front of her. The man she had married. The father of her child. The man who never raised his voice at her—yet had somehow walked around with this monstrous secret buried in his chest.

"But you... you told... you told Ivy, you told all of us she died at birth due to complications from Ivy’s trauma. No—Doctor Anika told us. She’s the one who—"

"I asked Doctor Anika for a favour," Evans said quietly, shame rolling off him. His shoulders slumped, he couldn’t meet his wife’s eyes.

"Oh my God..." Irene whispered. "Oh my God. That was why you made that ridiculous donation to Angel Dove Hospital." Her hand flew to her chest

"Yes." Evans swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. It was the sound of a man finally cornered by his own guilt.

"How... how could you?" Irene screamed. "How could you do that to her? After everything she has been through? You broke your own niece’s heart!"

"No! No!" Evans moved toward her, hands raised slightly. "I protected my niece and my grand-niece. Do you have any idea the lengths Tom and Sharona are willing to go for Winn’s inheritance? An inheritance he can only get if he has a biological child? They would have killed that baby, Irene."

"That doesn’t excuse what you have done, you imbecile!" she shouted, tears now running down her face unchecked. Her breathing turned ragged. "Do you have any idea what it means... the pain a mother carries... to hear her child—her child—died?" She pressed both palms to her temples, shaking her head. "Do you?!"

"Irene—"

"Oh my God," she whispered again. "Oh my God..."

He reached out again, but she stepped back one more time, trembling from head to toe, her arms wrapping around her stomach as if protecting her own child from the sheer violence of her heartbreak.

Her gaze rose to him—broken, furious, disbelieving.

"You lied to everyone... but you didn’t just lie. You let Ivy mourn a child who was still breathing. You let her break, Evans. And you watched her break. You don’t come back from that."

"Sylvia is on her way here to tell Winn. I have to stop her." Evans said. "Which is why I have to go to Canada tomorrow."

"You have to stop her. Oh, or is it you want to stop her? Evans the hero!" She laughed, but there was no joy in it—just bitterness, razor sharp. "You are a lunatic!"

"Irene, please—"

"Don’t. Just don’t. You made this mess alone. You buried a newborn alive in lies and secrets, and now you want... what? Applause because you want to ’fix’ it?"

"It wasn’t like that," Evans muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. "You don’t understand—"

"Oh, I understand perfectly!" she spat. "You manipulated an entire family. You let a girl mourn her own baby while she was still bleeding on a hospital bed. And now you expect me to help you hide it?"

He swallowed hard. "You cannot tell Ivy."

Irene barked a laugh. "Oh no! No, sir. I’m not doing your dirty job for you! You get to do that all by yourself since you did all of this all by yourself! And I cannot, for the life of me, understand why Mary will go along with this." Her eyes narrowed. "But when Sam gets wind of this?" She shook her head slowly. "You. Just. Wait."

She stormed back into the house.

Evans stood there alone.

That reaction, he had expected. Irene always reacted with her heart first; it was one of the things he loved about her—one of the things that terrified him now.

Ivy’s reaction would probably be the same. Maybe worse.

His father? He’d probably disown him.

But the one person’s reaction he couldn’t predict... was Winn.

Winn, who had been living in a storm of betrayal, resentment, abandonment, and whatever twisted thread his family held to him. Winn, who might just implode when this truth detonated in his life.

Evans walked back to the patio, leaning against the rail, staring at the dark outline of the neighborhood.

Ivy was happy. She was engaged. She had finally found someone who made her smile again.

She was finally healing.

But Sylvia wasn’t willing to wait anymore.

Sylvia—stubborn, impulsive, guilt-ridden Sylvia—was about to bulldoze into New York.

And Evans? He had less than twelve hours to stop her.

Or watch everything explode.

*****

Winn strolled into Commissioned the next day with Reese right at his side.

His phone wouldn’t stop vibrating in his pocket—short buzz, long buzz, short again. Sylvia.

Persistent. Desperate. Irritating.

He didn’t even need to check the caller ID anymore. But his stance remained immovable—she wasn’t forgiven, not now, not tomorrow, maybe not ever. Some betrayals didn’t just cut deep... they carved out bone.

The one call he had been waiting for finally came—Luca.

Luca met him by the final steel door, hands in his pockets. "He’s ready."

"Is he now?" Winn asked, already rolling his neck, loosening the tight coil of rage he’d been nurturing.

They walked into the dark room. There, tied to a reinforced metal chair, head sagging forward under his own weight, was Peter—the man Winn had been hunting down since the moment Evans told him the truth.

"So this is Peter?" Winn drawled, stepping into the light with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who enjoyed this part way too much. "The legendary Peter. I have been looking for you."

Peter spat weakly in his direction. "Fuck you!"

Winn simply lifted his hand toward Reese, palm open. Reese placed the small pocket knife in it.

Winn’s expression didn’t shift. Not anger. Not satisfaction. Just absolute, icy focus.

Then—fast as a whip—he drove the knife straight into Peter’s thigh.

The scream that tore out of the man’s throat ricocheted off the walls... Winn smiled.

"Music to the ears!" he laughed as if they were discussing wine notes instead of pain. He tightened his grip, squeezed, then pulled the blade out with a slow, wet slide.

Blood pooled instantly, rich and dark under the stark light.

Winn lifted the knife to Peter’s face, gaze turning sharp.

"Is this what you used on her?"

Peter’s whole body jolted, the chains rattling violently as he tried to pull away from Winn, as if he could somehow melt through the chair. "Who the fuck you talking about?"

Winn took out his phone, thumb gliding across the screen until Ivy’s picture appeared—her smile soft, hopeful, the way only he ever saw her. He held the phone inches from Peter’s face.

Peter’s eyes narrowed, then lit with wicked recognition. His lips twisted. "Oh. Her." A laugh spilled out—dry, ugly, cruel. "Oh the bitch was begging for it."

The sound that tore from Winn’s throat wasn’t quite human. Before Peter could blink, Winn drove the knife into his thigh again—same spot, same speed, no hesitation. Peter shrieked.

"Son of a bitch!" Peter choked out.

Winn leaned in, his arm steady, expression disturbingly calm. "I thought," he said, "you would learn from what I did to your partner." His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Seems like your stupid is quite legendary."

He slid the blade out efficiently. Winn wiped the knife across Peter’s shirt as if he despised mess. The fabric darkened beneath the stroke, and Peter’s face drained of color as the implication hit him.

Winn saw that exact second—when Peter realized the truth.

"You... you killed him?" Peter stuttered. A tremor started in his jaw. "You’re the one—"

"Oh, now the neurons are firing," Winn mocked. "Good boy."

Peter bared his teeth. "I’m going to gut you, you asshole."

Reese snorted from the corner—an amused, dark little sound. Winn’s attention stayed locked on Peter, the way a predator studies prey that has already lost.

"You touched my woman," Winn said softly. His fingers brushed the blade. "You stabbed her. You...you raped her, you fucking son of a bitch."

"I’m going to fuck you up so badly," he whispered, leaning in until Peter could feel his breath on his cheek, "you’ll be begging for death. And the beautiful thing, Peter... the truly beautiful thing..." He tapped the knife gently against Peter’s trembling chin. "Is that I have all day."

Peter tried to jerk away, but the restraints held firm. His breaths came in panicked bursts.

"And then," Winn finished with a smile that was far too calm for the words, "I will kill you."

He straightened, rolling his shoulders once, as if preparing for a workout.

Peter smiled back—a twisted, ugly stretch of his lips that made the veins bulge in his neck. "I know something," he rasped. "And if you kill me, you will regret it."

Winn tilted his head slowly. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

"I don’t care what you know," Winn said. He rolled the pocketknife between his fingers. "Of course, I like information. I collect information. I trade information. But make no mistake..." He tapped the knife lightly against Peter’s cheek, drawing a thin line of red. "With or without it, you are going to die here, today. And I plan on making it painful. Very painful."