Chapter 91
Julian's POV
The apartment felt too quiet without her.
I'd been alone in plenty of places—safe houses, hotel rooms, the sterile luxury of my own penthouse—but Evelyn's space had a particular quality of emptiness that got under my skin.
Maybe it was the way she'd arranged everything with such careful precision, each object placed exactly where it needed to be for maximum efficiency. Or maybe it was just knowing that she was out there with Isabella, probably being subjected to the kind of vapid socializing that made my teeth ache.
I checked my phone. No response to my last three messages, which meant either she was too distracted to reply or Isabella had her trapped in some changing room somewhere, being forced to model clothes she'd never wear.
The thought made me smile despite my irritation.
I'd already gone through her refrigerator—pathetically empty except for some yogurt that was probably expired and a bottle of vodka in the freezer—and made a mental note to fix that. Now I was standing in her living room, looking at the carefully curated bookshelves, trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with myself while she played dress-up with Adrian's fiancée.
I set my phone down on the coffee table and ran my hands through my hair, trying to work out the knot of frustration that had been building since Isabella's cheerful voice had shattered the peace of our morning. I'd meant what I said—I wasn't doing this again, wasn't hiding like some guilty secret while she maintained her carefully constructed facade.
But I also knew that pushing her too hard, too fast, would only make her pull away. She was already giving me more than she'd given anyone in years, letting me see the real her beneath all the layers of protection and pretense. I just needed to be patient.
Patience had never been my strong suit.
I picked up my phone and opened the encrypted messaging app I used for work. Weber had sent through the preliminary findings on the three companies we'd identified as potential suspects in the frame job against Adrian. All of them had motive—Winthrop Industries had undercut them on major defense contracts over the past eighteen months—but only one had the kind of resources and connections to pull off something this sophisticated.
Blackstone Defense Solutions.
I'd done business with them before, back when I was still building Titan from the ground up. Their CEO, Cassius Martin, was a ruthless bastard who played the game like he was born to it—all smiles and handshakes in public, knives and poison in private. If anyone had both the capability and the vindictiveness to orchestrate a political assassination and pin it on a competitor, it was him.
The question was how to prove it.
I started pulling up files, cross-referencing known associates, looking for any connection between Blackstone and the Russian organization that had trained Evelyn. It was a long shot—most of these shadow networks operated in complete isolation from each other—but I'd learned over the years that everyone left traces if you knew where to look.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Isabella.
Having so much fun with Evie! She's trying on the most gorgeous burgundy dress. You should see her—she looks amazing!
I stared at the message, trying to parse the subtext. Isabella wasn't stupid, despite the way she played up the ditzy socialite routine. She knew exactly what she was doing, sending me updates about Evelyn like we were all just friends having a lovely time together.
The real question was whether she suspected anything about what was actually going on between us.
I typed back: Glad you're enjoying yourself. Don't let her buy anything too practical—she needs color in her wardrobe.
Three dots appeared immediately, followed by: OMG yes! That's exactly what I've been telling her! Great minds think alike
I set the phone down and went back to my research, but my concentration was shot. All I could think about was Evelyn standing in some fitting room, probably looking like she wanted to murder someone while Isabella chirped about necklines and hemlines and whatever the hell else women talked about when they went shopping.
The image made me smile despite myself.
An hour passed. Then another. My phone stayed silent except for occasional updates from Weber about the investigation and one more message from Isabella showing me a photo of what appeared to be an obscene number of shopping bags.
I was starting to consider whether I should just leave—go back to my own place, give her space, stop sitting here like some lovesick teenager waiting for his girlfriend to come home—when my phone finally buzzed with a message from Evelyn.
Still alive. Isabella bought me an entire wardrobe. Send help.
The relief that flooded through me was disproportionate to the situation, but I didn't care.
Poor baby. Want me to stage a rescue?
Don't you dare. She's already suspicious about 'Julia' sending so many messages.
I felt my stomach drop. She saw your phone?
Just notifications. I changed your contact name and added an emoji. You're now my very persistent female assistant.
Despite everything, I laughed. The image of Evelyn frantically changing my contact information while Isabella hovered nearby was almost worth the indignity of being relegated to fictional assistant status.
What emoji?
Does it matter?
Yes.
A pause, then: A briefcase
A briefcase. Professional, impersonal, completely devoid of anything that might suggest we were sleeping together. It was perfect and it made me want to throw my phone across the room.
Charming. I'll remember that next time you're begging me to—
I deleted the message before sending it. Not because I didn't mean it, but because pushing her buttons when she was already stressed wasn't going to help anyone.
Instead I sent: When are you coming home?
Few more hours. Isabella wants to get our nails done.
Of course she does.
Julian.
Fine. I'll be here. Trying not to die of boredom.
You could always leave.
The message hit harder than she probably intended. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to figure out if she was testing me or if she genuinely thought I might just walk away because she was taking too long at the mall.
I told you I'm not going anywhere. Stop trying to get rid of me.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before her response came through: I'm not. Just giving you an out if you want it.
I don't.
Okay.
That single word carried more weight than it should have. I could practically feel her relaxing on the other end, letting herself believe that maybe, just maybe, I meant what I said about staying.
I went back to my research, but my mind kept drifting. I thought about the way she'd looked this morning when Isabella knocked on the door—that flash of panic in her eyes, the way she'd immediately started calculating how to handle the situation. I thought about the careful way she'd asked me to hide, like she was bracing for me to refuse or throw it back in her face.
I thought about the fact that she'd spent years learning how to be invisible, how to compartmentalize every part of herself, how to survive in a world that would kill her the moment she showed weakness.
And I thought about the fact that I was asking her to trust me with all of that, to let me into the most dangerous parts of her life, when she'd been trained to trust no one.
My phone buzzed again, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Isabella just asked if I'm dating anyone.