Chapter 13
Evelyn's POV
The funeral was a circus.
More people showed up than yesterday—politicians, business partners, society wives who wouldn't miss the event of the season. They filed past Arthur's casket like it was a receiving line at a gala. I stood beside Adrian for three hours, my hand on his arm, feeling every camera flash burn into my retinas.
The whispers were quieter today. My little performance yesterday had worked, at least temporarily. But I could still feel the speculation crawling over my skin like insects.
Julian Russell was impossible to miss in the crowd.
He stood near the back of the cathedral, tall and striking in a perfectly tailored black suit. But it wasn't just his looks that made him stand out. It was the way he carried himself—predatory attention barely concealed beneath a veneer of respectful mourning. His eyes tracked me through the entire service, and I told myself it was just my training, my killer's instinct recognizing a threat.
Though Julian was undeniably handsome, in that dangerous way that made smart women cross the street.
A woman stood beside him. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. She wore a simple black dress and pearls, her posture perfect, her expression appropriately somber. Everything about her screamed old money breeding—the kind of girl who'd grown up attending cotillions and charity galas, who knew exactly which fork to use at a state dinner.
She kept a respectful half-step behind Julian, her hand occasionally touching his arm in what seemed like a grounding gesture. Girlfriend? Wife? The thought made something twist in my chest that I refused to examine.
Later, during the receiving line, I learned she was his cousin. Isabella Russell. She offered her condolences with practiced grace, her voice soft and cultured.
"Mrs. Winthrop, I'm so sorry for your loss. Uncle Arthur was a remarkable man."
Her eyes were kind. Genuine. Nothing like the predatory gleam in Julian's.
"Thank you," I murmured.
Julian's handshake lasted a beat too long. His thumb brushed against my pulse point, deliberate and knowing.
"My condolences," he said. His voice was low, meant only for me. "Though I suspect you're stronger than you look."
I pulled my hand back. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Russell."
His smile was sharp. "Julian, please. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."
Isabella touched his arm again, gentle reproach in the gesture. He stepped away, but not before his eyes swept over me one more time—cataloging, assessing, filing away information for later use.
When it finally ended, when the last mourner pressed my hand with fake sympathy, I wanted nothing more than to strip off this suffocating black dress and disappear. But there was still business to handle.
Arthur's study smelled like his cigars. Cuban tobacco and old leather. The scent hit me the moment I walked in, and for a second I forgot how to breathe.
His desk sat empty except for a single folder. Gerald Hastings, the family attorney, had placed it there like it was the Holy Grail. I took one of the wingback chairs facing the desk. Adrian stood by the window, rigid as a statue. Catherine claimed the seat beside me, her movements careful, almost wary.
Adrian's younger sister had been different since yesterday. The open hostility from the first day had shifted into something more complex after she'd witnessed my confrontation with those gossiping vultures. She still didn't like me—that much was clear in the tight set of her jaw, the way she avoided looking directly at me. But there was caution there now. Maybe even a grudging respect.
She'd been crying on and off since the funeral. Her eyes were still red-rimmed now, mascara slightly smudged despite obvious attempts to fix it.
Then Elizabeth Winthrop swept in.
I'd seen Arthur's older sister from a distance at both services, but this was different. Up close, she was formidable. Steel-gray hair pulled back tight. Black Chanel suit that probably cost more than a car. She had Arthur's aristocratic jaw, but her eyes were sharper. Colder.
She'd been watching me. I realized it the moment she looked at me. While I'd been focused on managing the obvious threats—the gossip, the cameras, Julian Russell's predatory stares—she'd been conducting reconnaissance.
Elizabeth settled into Arthur's chair like she owned it. Maybe she did, in a way.
"Before Gerald begins," she said, "let's address the elephant in the room."
Her gaze swept over each of us. When it landed on me, I felt pinned.
"I've spent two days watching this circus. The speculation about Evelyn. The absolutely vulgar gossip." She paused. "Your performance yesterday was effective, my dear. You silenced some tongues. But temporary silence isn't permanent."
"I'm aware," I said.
"Good." She leaned back, fingers steepled exactly like Arthur used to do. "Then you understand why we need decisive action. A young widow living with her late husband's unmarried son? The tabloids are salivating. We need to establish clear boundaries. Clear futures."
I knew where this was going. My hands tightened in my lap.
"Adrian needs to marry," Elizabeth continued. "Soon. A strategic alliance that sends the right message about this family's priorities and puts an end to any unseemly speculation."
Adrian's voice cut through the room. "My father has been dead for three days."
"Precisely why we need to start planning now." Elizabeth's tone remained calm, reasonable. "I'm not suggesting an immediate wedding. But an engagement announcement within the next few months would go a long way toward—"
"No."