Chapter 34
Evelyn's POV
The package arrived at ten.
I stared at the sleek black box on my coffee table like it might explode. The courier had handed it over with careful reverence, eyes averted, clearly instructed not to look at me directly. Now he was gone, and I was alone with whatever game Julian was playing.
The card sat beneath the ribbon. Thick cream paper, my name in his angular handwriting. I pulled it free slowly, my heart hammering too hard.
Wear it. Or don't. Either way, I'll be watching.
My hands clenched around the card. I should throw this away. Should call the courier service and send it back. Show up at Elizabeth's dinner in my own clothes, make it clear I didn't need his gifts or his games or anything from him.
But I opened the box anyway.
The dress was perfect. Black silk from The Row—Olsen twins' brand, known for empowering cuts that let women move like they owned the world. The fabric felt like liquid night under my fingertips, draping in a way that suggested elegance without constraint.
High neckline, long sleeves that would cover the scars on my wrists from the restraints they'd used in Vorkuta, but the cut was modern, almost architectural. It looked modest but moved like a second skin, designed for a woman who might need to run or fight or simply walk away with her head high.
I hated that he'd gotten it right.
This wasn't about the dress itself. I had Arthur's money now, Adrian's credit cards. I could walk into any boutique on Fifth Avenue and buy something identical. No—this was about the message. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you need armor that doesn't feel like a cage.
I held the dress up to my body, studying my reflection. The woman in the mirror looked hollow-eyed and pale, caught somewhere between defiance and resignation.
I hated her weakness.
But I'd agreed to Julian's terms. Promised him I'd stop pretending. And wearing his dress felt like the first payment on that debt.
I carried it to the bedroom and laid it out carefully. Then I went to shower, letting hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turned pink. Trying to wash away the feeling of violation that clung to me like smoke.
---
The restaurant was in Midtown, all dark wood and crystal chandeliers. The kind of place where reservations were made months in advance. I arrived exactly on time and gave my name to the hostess.
"Mrs. Winthrop." Her eyes flicked over me, cataloging my dress and shoes. Whatever she saw satisfied her. "Your party is already seated. Follow me?"
I followed her through the maze of tables, hyperaware of the eyes tracking my progress. The whispers I couldn't hear but could easily imagine. That's the Winthrop widow. The one who married Arthur when she was barely legal. The one living in Adrian's building now, even though he's about to marry someone else.
The gossip had been building since the funeral. My presence here would only feed it.
But I'd stopped caring about gossip somewhere between that alley and Julian's phone call. Propriety was for people who had something to lose.
The hostess led me to a private dining room, separated from the main floor by frosted glass. I paused before the doors, steeling myself. Then I pushed them open.
The conversation stopped.
Isabella Russell sat at Adrian's right, positioned as the guest of honor. And she was wearing a black dress that made my stomach drop.
Not identical to mine—hers was Dior, with a lower neckline and cap sleeves, more traditionally feminine. But the resemblance was unmistakable. Same black silk, same elegant simplicity. We looked like variations on a theme.
Julian had orchestrated this.
Adrian's eyes found mine. I saw surprise flicker across his face, maybe concern. But he didn't speak, didn't rise to greet me. He just sat there in his charcoal suit, tension in his shoulders.
Elizabeth was at the head of the table, her expression carefully controlled as she noticed the matching dresses. Beside her sat Henry Russell—Isabella's father, broad-shouldered with steel-gray hair—and his wife Margaret.
Catherine occupied the seat next to Isabella, her eyes already narrowed with barely concealed hostility as she saw my dress.
I felt something sink in my chest. The fragile truce we'd established after the funeral—her grudging acceptance of my presence at family gatherings—was crumbling before my eyes. She'd clearly chosen her side, aligned herself with Isabella, and now she was looking at me like I'd deliberately shown up to sabotage her future sister-in-law. Like my matching dress was a calculated provocation rather than Julian's twisted idea of entertainment.
All because of his games.
And leaning against the bar in the corner, whiskey in hand and that infuriating smile on his face, was Julian.
He looked exactly as I'd expected. Black suit, tie loosened, posture relaxed. When our eyes met, he raised his glass in a silent toast. Acknowledging that this was his doing.
"Evelyn." Elizabeth's voice cut through the silence. "How kind of you to join us. We were just about to start."
I forced a smile and moved to the empty seat across from Isabella. As far from Adrian as possible. I could feel Julian's gaze tracking me, cataloging every micro-expression.
"I apologize for keeping you waiting," I said. My voice came out steady. "Traffic was worse than expected."
"Of course." Elizabeth's smile was all teeth. "Isabella, dear, have you met Evelyn? Adrian's stepmother."
The emphasis on stepmother was deliberate. A reminder of my place.
Isabella's eyes widened as she took in my dress, realizing what Julian had done. But she recovered quickly, her smile never faltering. "Evelyn." She extended her hand. "It's wonderful to see you again. I'm so glad you could join us tonight."
We'd met briefly at Arthur's funeral—a polite handshake, a murmured condolence. But this was different. This was her territory now, her claim being staked.
I shook her hand with exactly the right amount of pressure. "Thank you for having me, Isabella. And I apologize for the unfortunate coincidence with our dresses. If I'd known, I would have chosen something else."