My first crush (COMPLETED)√

CHAPTER 90: Evidence

Sharon's POV

"Sharon!"

Allison's voice rang out in delighted surprise the moment she swung the door open. Before I could even step inside, she wrapped me in a tight hug that smelled faintly of vanilla perfume and expensive candles. Behind her, music thundered from upstairs — bass vibrating through the walls, sharp and relentless, like a heartbeat that wouldn't settle.

I leaned back slightly, curiosity tugging at me.
"Sounds like a party."

She laughed, pulling me in. "Thought you wouldn't come! Ever since you got back with your psycho boyfriend — or should I say psycho fiancé — you disappeared. No calls, no chats, nothing. Tell me honestly... is there any space left in your heart for me, or is Stephen taking up all the room?"

Her teasing words held a hint of wounded truth.

I slipped my bag onto the couch, giving her an apologetic smile.
"You might've been calling when I was... busy."
The look I gave her said enough.

Her eyebrows rose knowingly.

"I'm sorry," I added gently. "But I'm here now. So tell me — who's upstairs? Your boyfriend?"

I settled onto the sofa while Allison crossed to the bar, retrieving a bottle of whiskey. She poured a glass and handed it to me. I shook my head immediately.

"Stephen would kill me," I whispered.

She chuckled and took the glass back.
"No boyfriends here. Just my brother. He's crashing for the weekend, and I can't wait for him to leave. Try sleeping with all that noise."

I forced a polite smile, shifting slightly. I was never comfortable when the topic drifted toward her brother — a tension I couldn't quite explain. My fault for asking.

"So..." I said quickly, steering us elsewhere, "did you stir things up with that hot guy from the club?"

She sighed, collapsing beside me.
"Yeah. One night. That's all it was."

"That's it? Just like that?" I asked, surprised.

She shrugged.
"What can I say? My twin brother's a player — maybe that energy rubs off on me." She nudged me playfully. "Enough about my boring life. Let's talk about yours."

I groaned softly. "About what?"

Her expression sharpened.
"Patricia."

"Not again..."

"Come on, Sharon!" she insisted. "She's claiming she's pregnant for Stephen and you're just letting it slide. You deserve a peaceful wedding. You need to act — fast."

I exhaled, tension pressing on my chest.

"Okay... what should I do? I'm out of ideas."

Her smile grew mischievous.
"My plan is simple."

I leaned closer. "I'm listening."

She whispered into my ear, her voice low and conspiratorial.
By the time she finished, a slow smirk crept across my lips.

How had I not thought of that?

⸻

Later

Mr. Peter's mansion loomed ahead — elegant and intimidating beneath the walls afternoon sun. Marble pillars glowed pale against the sky, and manicured hedges lined the driveway like silent guards.

I knew he'd be at work. And thankfully, Patricia wasn't supposed to be home.

Moving quietly, I slipped inside, making sure no staff noticed me. My heart thudded with adrenaline — ridiculous, really. I wasn't breaking into a vault. Just searching a bedroom.

Still, the black leather jacket and trousers Allison insisted I wear made me feel like I was in some undercover mission.

Patricia's room smelled faintly of perfume — sharp, floral, calculated. Everything was immaculate. Too immaculate.

I searched everywhere — beneath pillows, inside drawers, through her wardrobe, under the bed. Nothing.

Frustration crept in.

Then I opened her makeup bag.

An envelope.

My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the contents.
The words blurred at first — then sharpened.

DNA test results.

Negative.

Relief flooded through me so suddenly I had to steady myself. I'd been right. Stephen wasn't the father.

I grabbed my phone to call Allison — no answer.
"Damn it."

Instead, I snapped photos and sent them to her.

Mission accomplished.

I stepped outside, breath lighter than it had been in weeks — only to freeze.

Patricia stood in the doorway.

Her eyes burned with cold fury. Something about her presence felt different — harder, sharper. My pulse quickened despite myself.

"What were you doing in my room?" she demanded. "And who let you in?"

Her gaze locked onto the papers in my hand.

"What's that?"

I straightened, refusing to back down.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Patricia. It's over."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, over?"

I lifted the papers.
"This. I have proof Stephen isn't the father. So tell me... who is?"

She scoffed, a humorless sound.
"You've always been amusing, Sharon. And foolish. You think you'll show everyone? Not happening."

Before I could react, she shoved me violently.

Pain exploded as my head struck the wall. The world tilted, dimmed, and slipped into darkness.

The last thing I felt was cold emptiness where my engagement ring once rested — and Patricia's fury hanging in the air like a storm that had finally broken.