Chapter 16
Evelyn's POV
The clock glowed 1:47 AM. I gave up on sleep.
I'd been staring at the ceiling for hours. My mind kept replaying the afternoon like a broken record. Elizabeth's cold ultimatum. Adrian's wounded eyes. My own cowardice as I ran from the study instead of admitting the truth Arthur had somehow seen.
"I hope you will spend the rest of your lives together."
Those words haunted me. Not because they were cruel. Because they were kind. Because Arthur looked at the wreckage of what I was and still thought I deserved happiness.
He was wrong.
I sat up. Pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. The breathing techniques from Vorkuta could stop a PTSD attack. Could slow my heart during a firefight. Could keep me alive under interrogation.
But they were useless against this. This suffocating pressure in my chest. This pain that came from looking Adrian in the eye and lying. Telling him we were impossible when every cell in my body screamed otherwise.
I couldn't stay in this room. Every piece of furniture whispered memories. Adrian helping me choose curtains. Adrian finding me crying in the library. Adrian, Adrian, Adrian.
I needed out. Now.
I changed fast. Black slip dress. Leather jacket. Flat boots—tactical habit. In the mirror, I looked exactly right: a heartbroken woman seeking oblivion. I covered the exhaustion with just enough makeup to pass as human instead of haunted.
The house was silent. I crept down the back stairs, avoiding the night staff. If anyone saw me leaving at this hour, by morning the whole estate would know. I slipped out the side door and ordered an Uber.
Destination: The Abyss. A club in the Lower East Side where Manhattan's elite never went. Where I could disappear.
The Uber dropped me at a door marked only by a red light. I descended into darkness made solid. Red and purple lights cut through smoke. Electronic music pounded. The crowd was perfect—art students and trust fund kids, models and dealers, all hiding from their parents.
I found a corner at the bar. Back to the wall. Another habit I couldn't break.
The bartender was young. Latino. Clumsy hands. When he set down my vodka martini, the ice was melting. The ratio was wrong. I didn't care. I just needed the burn.
First drink went down fast. Then the second. By the third, the edges started to blur. Elizabeth's accusations. Catherine's betrayal. Arthur's blessing.
But Adrian's face stayed clear. The way he'd looked at me. Like I was everything he wanted and everything that could destroy him.
He wasn't wrong about the second part.
I closed my eyes. Let the music hammer my skull. Trying to drown in chaos. Trying to forget that hours ago, I'd been given permission to have what I wanted. And I'd thrown it away.
"Is that what you want?" Adrian had asked.
What I wanted didn't matter. I was a weapon pretending to be a woman. Weapons didn't get happy endings.
The bartender refilled my glass. I stared at my reflection. Pale skin. Dark circles. Pressed lips. I looked like a ghost.
Maybe I was.
Then I felt it. Eyes on me.
I glanced at the mirror. A man at the other end of the bar. Armani suit. Perfect hair. Sharp features. Blake Morrison.
I knew him from society functions. Always a different woman. Always that predatory smile.
He'd been at Arthur's funeral too. Watching.
Now he was looking at me like I was prey.
I turned away. He didn't take the hint.
"Winthrop's widow." He slid onto the stool next to me. Cologne overwhelming. Smile sharp. "Never thought I'd see you slumming it here."
I kept my voice flat. "Morrison. I'm not in the mood."
"Nobody comes to The Abyss alone unless they want company." He ordered whiskey. His gaze traveled over me. "Rough day?"
Every instinct screamed to leave. But my legs felt heavy. My head swam. And some self-destructive part of me wanted to see how much worse this could get.
"You could say that."
Blake leaned closer. Whiskey on his breath. "The whole Upper East Side's been talking about you. That scene at the funeral—impressive. Real backbone."
His hand drifted toward my wrist. I watched it like a snake approaching. Calculating exactly how much force to break those fingers.
"Morrison," I said quietly. "Don't."
He laughed. Low and ugly. "Come on. Everyone knows what you are. You married an old man for money. Now he's dead and you're figuring out your next move."
His voice dropped. Intimate. Vicious.
"I hear you've already got your hooks in the son. Playing stepmother and lover at the same time—that's some next-level shit."
The words hit like a fist. My vision tunneled. Vorkuta training kicked in. Threat assessment. Attack vectors. Kill zones.
I could end this in seconds. Grab his wrist. Twist. Slam his face into the bar. Strike to the throat. Break his jaw.
Make sure he never spoke about Adrian again.
But I couldn't. Not here. Not with witnesses.
So I did something worse.
I smiled.
"You're right." My voice went soft. Sweet. "Maybe I do need company. Maybe I'm tired of pretending."
I watched Blake's eyes widen. Saw his guard drop.
I let my hand drift to his. Didn't pull away when his fingers closed around my wrist. His grip was possessive. The kind of touch that should earn him a broken arm.
But I kept smiling. Kept my body language open. While my mind calculated distances and angles.
"But not here." I leaned in. Made him strain to hear over the music. "Too many people. Too much noise. Don't you know somewhere more... private?"
Blake's smile turned triumphant. Ugly with victory. "I knew you'd come around. Women like you always do."
He stood. Pulled me up. His hand moved to my waist like he owned me.
Every touch made my skin crawl. Made the killer in me scream to break free.
But I kept the mask in place. Let him think he'd won.
"There's an alley behind the club," he said. Breath hot on my ear. "Quiet. Private. Perfect."
Perfect for making sure you never speak again.
"Lead the way," I murmured.
We moved through the crowd. Blake's hand never left my waist. Growing bolder with each step.
People glanced at us. Some with envy. Some with pity. Most with indifference.
Just another rich asshole leaving with another drunk woman.
The back door opened onto a narrow alley. Dumpsters. Trash. The kind of place where things happened that no one wanted to see.
The door closed. Music cut off. Just traffic sounds. Blake's breathing.
No cameras. No witnesses.
Just him and me and darkness.
Blake shoved me against the brick wall. Hard. His hands were already moving. Waist. Hips. His mouth found my neck.
"God, you're even better than I imagined," he muttered. "All that ice queen bullshit—I knew there was fire underneath."