Chapter 10
Evelyn's POV
The staircase felt endless.
Each step took me closer to the crowd below. My hand barely touched the banister. In Vorkuta, Viktor taught me to walk like I owned every room I entered. Act like you belong, he'd said, and people will believe it.
So I kept my chin up. Moved slowly. The dress whispered against my legs with each step. The chandelier threw broken light across the marble floor where Arthur's casket waited. White lilies everywhere. Black ribbons. The smell hit me hard—flowers and expensive perfume mixing with old money.
I stopped on the landing. Scanned the room the way I'd learned in a dozen cities where one wrong move meant death.
About forty guests. Small groups talking in low voices. Most wore black suits and conservative dresses. They held champagne glasses even though this was supposed to be mourning. Rich people never stopped drinking.
My eyes found Adrian first.
I couldn't help it. He stood near the casket talking to some old man I didn't know. His black suit fit perfectly. Even from here I could see how tense his shoulders were. How carefully he held himself. This was Adrian playing the dutiful son, and it was costing him.
I forced myself to look away before anyone noticed.
The final steps brought me down to the main floor. The room's attention shifted. Conversations didn't stop, but they changed. Voices dropped. Eyes cut toward me. Curious. Sympathetic. Calculating.
I'd seen that look before. In Moscow. Berlin. Dubai. People trying to figure out if I was dangerous or just irrelevant.
Let them wonder.
I walked toward Arthur's casket. Every eye tracked me. The heels made me move carefully, deliberately. Not the way my body wanted to move—fast and efficient. But Evelyn Valentine wore heels.
The casket was mahogany and brass. Absurdly expensive. I stopped in front of it and closed my eyes. Clasped my hands like I was praying.
Really I was counting people. Mapping exits. Identifying threats.
Focus. You're here to mourn, not plan an escape.
I opened my eyes and looked down at Arthur's face. The mortician had made him look peaceful. Smaller than I remembered. Less imposing than the man who'd saved me and then destroyed me.
I waited to feel something. Gratitude. Anger. Relief. Anything.
Nothing came. Just the same emptiness that had settled in when Viktor taught me to kill.
You saved me, I thought at the corpse. And you ruined me. I guess we're even.
Behind me, voices murmured. A wall of sound that felt protective and suffocating at once.
I straightened. Smoothed my dress. Turned to face the room with the kind of fragile composure that invited sympathy instead of questions.
That's when I saw them.
Two young women by the refreshment table. They stood out like neon signs in a church. The brunette wore a black dress so tight and short it barely counted as funeral attire. Diamonds everywhere—earrings, bracelet, necklace. Her friend matched her. Low-cut dress. Too much jewelry. Too much skin.
They weren't here to mourn.
They were here to hunt.
I recognized the type. Social climbers who treated funerals like networking events. Their eyes kept sliding to Adrian with the kind of hunger that made my jaw clench.
I turned away. Headed for the corner where someone had set up coffee and water. My throat felt dry. I needed something to do with my hands. Standing in the middle of the room made me feel exposed.
The heels clicked softly on marble. I could feel people still watching. Still trying to figure out Arthur Winthrop's mysterious widow who'd vanished for five years.
Let them think what they want.
I reached for a water glass. My hands looked steady even though adrenaline still hummed through me from the fight with Catherine.
Then I heard it.
"—such a performance." The brunette's voice carried perfectly. Deliberately loud enough to be overheard. "Five years gone, and now she's playing devastated widow. I wonder if she even remembers what Arthur looked like."
"Probably too busy with whoever kept her in Russia." Her friend laughed. Sharp and cruel. "Poor Arthur. Married to a woman who couldn't even come home."
The glass trembled in my hand.
I set it down carefully. Gripped the table edge until my knuckles went white. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around. To make them regret those words. To hurt them in ways they'd never forget.
Not here. Not now. They're not worth it.
I'd survived worse than catty socialites. Survived Vorkuta. Viktor's training. Missions that would have broken most people. Two spoiled women with vicious tongues were nothing.
I could walk away.
I turned to leave.
"Did you see how Adrian looked at her on the stairs?" The brunette's voice went sly. Insinuating. "God, the whole stepmother-stepson thing is just... disgusting."
"I know, right?" Her friend stage-whispered. "What kind of woman seduces her own stepson? No wonder they sent her away."
My vision narrowed.
Sound faded except for blood rushing in my ears. I could handle attacks on me. Had learned to let them slide off. But this wasn't about me.
This was about Adrian.
And that was a line I couldn't let them cross.
I turned slowly. Started walking toward them with the precision Viktor drilled into me before a kill. Not fast. Just purposeful. People nearby noticed. Conversations faltered.
The two women kept gossiping. Too absorbed to see me coming.
"—bet he's into it though. Older women, forbidden fruit, all that Oedipal—"
"Excuse me."
My voice cut through like a knife. Quiet but sharp. They both flinched. I stopped right in front of them. Close enough they had to look up. Close enough to see I was not amused.
"I couldn't help overhearing. You were talking about Adrian Winthrop?"
The brunette—Scarlett—recovered first. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, Evelyn! We were just—we didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean for me to hear you speculating about my stepson?" I kept my voice soft. Almost gentle. But cold enough that her smile died. "Or you didn't mean to spread vicious gossip at his father's wake?"
"We weren't spreading gossip," Vivian protested weakly. Her face had gone pale. "We were just talking—"
"About how 'disgusting' our relationship is?" I tilted my head. Studied them the way I studied targets. They both stepped back. "About how I 'seduced' him? About his Oedipal preferences?"