Chapter 21
Evelyn's POV
The taxi dropped me three blocks from the Winthrop estate at 3:17 AM.
I paid cash and waited until the taillights disappeared before starting the walk home. The night wrapped around me like a shroud.
The house was dark and silent around me.
Adrian would be sleeping in the master suite. Catherine in the east wing. The staff in the basement level, far enough away that I didn't need to worry about noise.
I moved through the first-floor hallway like a ghost. Moonlight painted everything silver and shadow. The house looked different at night—more like a mausoleum than a home.
I was halfway up the grand staircase when I heard it.
A soft click from the second-floor corridor.
A door lock disengaging.
My body reacted instantly. I froze mid-step, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. My right hand reached for the knife at my waist—but it wasn't there. I'd left it in the safe because widows didn't carry weapons to nightclubs.
The absence felt like losing a limb.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. The vodka fog burned away as adrenaline flooded my system. Every sense sharpened to combat readiness.
The sound had come from Adrian's suite.
I should have kept walking. Should have gone to my room and pretended I'd heard nothing.
But my feet carried me sideways instead. I pressed against the wall and slid into the shadows behind a Greek statue. The position gave me a clear view down the corridor while keeping me hidden.
Adrian's double doors stood slightly ajar.
As I watched, one door swung open wider.
A woman emerged.
Tall. Long blonde hair catching the moonlight. She wore a man's white dress shirt—unmistakably Adrian's, expensive fabric barely covering her thighs. Only three buttons fastened. One hand held black stilettos. The other adjusted the collar with casual familiarity.
She moved with confidence. No hesitation. No fumbling in the dark.
She'd done this before.
Many times.
I watched from my hiding place, body rigid. My nails dug into my palms hard enough to break skin. Blood welled between my fingers but the pain was distant.
The woman paused at Adrian's doorway. Glanced back into the room with a satisfied smile. Intimate. Knowing.
Then she pulled the door shut.
The lock clicked.
She started down the corridor toward me, bare feet silent on the Persian runner. When she was thirty feet away, she stopped to slip on her stilettos. The motion was graceful, practiced.
She pulled out her phone. The screen's glow illuminated her face.
I recognized her.
Garcia Martinez. The actress photographed with Adrian at that charity gala two weeks ago. Page Six had speculated about whether the Winthrop heir had finally found someone to settle down with.
She was even more striking in person.
She tapped something on her phone, expression businesslike. Then she headed for the stairs with the assured stride of someone who owned every space she occupied.
I didn't breathe.
She descended and disappeared into the first-floor darkness. A moment later, the side door opened and closed.
She even knew about the backup key.
Or maybe Adrian had let her in himself. Hours ago. Before...
My training had made me excellent at reconstructing scenes. Right now that skill was a curse. I could see the whole evening—Adrian pouring wine, his hand brushing hers. The two of them moving to his suite. Clothes shed in a trail across expensive carpet. Her gasping his name while he—
I bit down hard on my lip. Used the pain to anchor myself before I did something catastrophically stupid.
Like marching down that corridor and kicking in Adrian's door.
Like demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing.
But I had no right to that anger.
No claim on Adrian beyond the legal fiction that made me his stepmother. He was twenty-five with normal appetites and no obligation to remain celibate just because his father's widow happened to be pathetically in love with him.
He could fuck whoever he wanted.
It was none of my business.
The logic was sound.
It did nothing to stop the rage and jealousy churning in my gut.
I waited five minutes after Garcia left. Counting each second with mechanical precision. When I finally emerged from behind the statue, my legs trembled from holding the combat stance for so long.
I didn't look at Adrian's door as I walked past.
Didn't let myself wonder if he was still awake. If he'd rolled over and gone to sleep with Garcia's perfume still on his skin.
I reached my suite and locked the door. Only then did I sag against it, knees buckling as the adrenaline crash hit. I slid halfway down before catching myself.
The bathroom was clinical and cold and exactly what I needed.
I turned the tap to cold and splashed water on my face. My reflection looked back with red-rimmed eyes and smudged makeup. I looked like what I was—a woman barely holding herself together.
I reached for my toothbrush. Squeezed out mint toothpaste that filled my mouth with the same sharp taste as Julian's candy.
The association made something twist in my chest.
I brushed until my gums ached. Spat. Rinsed. Did it again. As if I could scrub away the taste of tonight.
The vodka and violence and Julian's knowing smile.
The image of that woman walking out of Adrian's room.
When I finally stumbled to bed, I didn't bother changing. Just collapsed onto the duvet and stared at the ornate ceiling with its hand-painted cherubs and gold leaf.
Arthur had spared no expense on this room. A gilded cage for his rescued bird.
I closed my eyes but that made it worse.
I could see Garcia Martinez with perfect clarity. Could imagine her kneeling before Adrian, golden hair spilling across his thighs. Could hear the sounds she might have made. Could picture Adrian's hands fisted in that hair, his head thrown back.
The images played on loop. Each iteration more detailed than the last.
I tried to reason with myself.
Adrian was free to be with whoever he wanted. I'd been the one to push him away. To insist we could never be more than stepmother and stepson.
Of course he was seeking comfort elsewhere.
Of course he was trying to move on.
It was healthy. Normal.
The rational arguments made perfect sense.
They did nothing to ease the ache in my chest.
I rolled onto my side. Pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. Trying to make myself small.
That's when the peppermint taste surged back.
Sharp and insistent on my tongue. Julian's candy had been strong enough to linger.
And with it came the memory of his face.
Those pale gray eyes that had seen everything I'd been trying to hide. The slight curl of his mouth when he'd called us the same.
The peppermint taste lingered as my eyes grew heavy. Exhaustion finally catching up.