Chapter 90
Evelyn's POV
I realized my mistake immediately—the softness in my expression, the way I'd relaxed reading his texts. I schooled my features back to neutral and tucked the phone away.
"Just my... assistant. Julia. She's very efficient."
"Julia?" Isabella's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know you had an assistant. That's so fancy! What does she do?"
"Handles my schedule. Keeps me organized." The lies came easily now, smooth and practiced. "Very type-A personality. Sends a lot of messages."
Another buzz. I ignored it.
Margot returned with an armful of clothes, and for the next hour, I found myself being dressed and undressed like a doll while Isabella provided running commentary on everything from necklines to hemlines to whether certain colors made me look "too pale" or "interestingly ethereal."
I tried on a green silk blouse that Isabella insisted brought out my eyes, a burgundy dress that hugged curves I'd forgotten I had, a cream-colored cashmere sweater that felt like wearing a cloud. Each piece was so far from my usual uniform of black and navy that I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
My phone kept buzzing. I kept ignoring it.
"You have to get that dress," Isabella said, gesturing at the burgundy number. "It's perfect for the engagement party. You'll look stunning."
"Your engagement party?" I turned to look at her. "Isabella, I'm not sure that's appropriate—"
"Why not? You're family. Sort of. In a weird, complicated way." She waved off my concern with characteristic breeziness. "Besides, I want you there. You're my friend, remember? My bestie!"
The casual way she said it—like we really were friends, like the complications of my relationship with Adrian and my secret involvement with Julian didn't exist—made something twist in my chest.
My phone buzzed again, more insistently this time.
"Okay, seriously, you need to check that," Isabella said. "Julia sounds very persistent."
I pulled out my phone, meaning to just silence it completely, but the message preview made me pause:
I’m going to get some groceries. Is there anything you don’t eat or can’t eat?
Something warm unfurled in my chest, despite my best efforts to suppress it. Even annoyed with me, even relegated to hiding in my apartment, he was still taking care of me in his own way.
I quickly changed his contact name from "Julian" to "Julia" and added a generic female emoji next to it. Just in case Isabella decided to get nosy.
"Everything okay?" Isabella was watching me with that peculiar intensity she sometimes showed, the one that reminded me she wasn't quite as ditzy as she pretended to be.
"Fine. Just Julia being Julia." I typed back quickly: Nope, I eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.
His response came immediately: I promise I’ll be gentle.
I felt my lips curve despite myself, and I quickly tucked the phone away before Isabella could see.
"You really like your assistant," Isabella observed. "You get this look when you read her messages. It's sweet."
"She's very good at her job," I said neutrally, turning back to the mirror and the burgundy dress that did, admittedly, look stunning.
"Hmm." Isabella's tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced, but she let it drop. "Okay, you're definitely getting that dress. And the green blouse. And probably those pants—they make your ass look amazing."
We moved on to shoes, then accessories, then—at Isabella's insistence—the cosmetics department, where a makeup artist named Mia took one look at me and declared that I had "excellent bone structure but terrible product choices."
"You're wearing the wrong foundation," Mia announced, already pulling out brushes and palettes. "And your eyebrows need shaping. And when was the last time you used anything other than mascara?"
"I don't really—"
"Sit." Mia pointed at the chair with the authority of someone who would not be argued with.
Isabella settled in next to me, already chattering with Mia about techniques and products while my phone continued its steady stream of buzzing in my purse.
Found your coffee stash. You have excellent taste.
Also found what I'm pretty sure is a Glock 19 in your bedside drawer. Very interesting reading material you keep in there.
Should I be concerned about the amount of ammunition you have stored in your closet?
I felt my heart rate spike at that last message. I'd been careful, had hidden everything in false-bottom drawers and behind false walls, but of course Julian would find it. Of course he'd go looking.
I typed back quickly: Stay out of my things.
His response was immediate: Make me.
"Evelyn? You okay?" Isabella was watching me again, her head tilted. "You look tense."
"I'm fine." I forced myself to relax, to let Mia continue painting my face while Isabella provided helpful suggestions about "bringing out my natural beauty."
I mean it, Julian. Don't go through my stuff.
Too late. Already found your passport collection. Very impressive. How many identities do you have?
My blood ran cold. Those passports were supposed to be hidden, locked away in a safe that required both a combination and a fingerprint. How the hell had he—
Relax, Evelyn. I'm not going to tell anyone. But we are going to have a conversation about this when you get home.
That wasn't the deal.
The deal was that you wouldn't push me away. It didn't say anything about me not being curious about the woman I'm sleeping with. Especially when that woman apparently has enough fake IDs to start her own espionage ring.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room. Wanted to leave Isabella here and storm back to my apartment and... what? Kick Julian out? He'd just proven he could find anything I tried to hide. Threaten him? He already knew enough to destroy me.
"All done!" Mia spun my chair around to face the mirror, and I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
My skin looked luminous, my eyes dramatically defined with shades of bronze and gold, my lips a deep wine color that Isabella immediately declared "absolutely perfect." I looked like someone else entirely—someone softer, more approachable, less like a weapon carefully disguised as a woman.
"Oh my God, you look amazing!" Isabella clapped her hands together. "We're getting all of these products. All of them. Mia, ring it up."
My phone buzzed again.
Stop panicking. I'm not going to do anything with what I found. But you need to trust me eventually, Evelyn. This secret-keeping thing only works if we're both honest.
You're one to talk about honesty. You hid in my bedroom this morning.
Because you asked me to. There's a difference.
He was right, and I hated that he was right.
Isabella linked her arm through mine as we left the cosmetics counter, her shopping bags multiplying with each stop. "This has been so much fun! We should do this every week. Make it a tradition!"
"I don't think my bank account could handle that," I said, only half-joking.
"Please. You're a Winthrop. You could buy this entire store if you wanted to." She squeezed my arm. "Besides, it's not about the money. It's about the bonding! The girl time! The—oh, we should get our nails done! There's a place just down the street that does the most amazing designs."
My phone buzzed. I didn't even need to check it to know it was Julian, probably finding something else incriminating in my apartment, probably enjoying himself far too much.
I should have been furious. Should have been terrified that he was discovering all my carefully hidden secrets.
Instead, I felt something else entirely—a strange kind of relief that someone finally knew, that I didn't have to pretend to be something I wasn't, at least not with him.
Even if that someone was currently ransacking my apartment and sending me sarcastic text messages about my arsenal.
"Nail salon it is," I heard myself say.