Chapter 32
Evelyn's POV
The Tribeca loft felt cavernous in the afternoon light. All exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows that showed me a city I no longer belonged to.
Adrian had bought this place five years ago, right before I left for Russia. He'd handed me the keys with that careful, measured expression he wore when he was trying not to show too much emotion. "In case you don't want to stay at the estate when you come back," he'd said. "So you'll have somewhere that's yours."
But I'd never come back. Not once in five years.
Now I stood in the center of the main room, taking in the space that had waited for me like a patient ghost. The furniture was minimal—a low-slung gray sofa, a glass coffee table, a few carefully chosen pieces that screamed expensive interior designer. Everything was pristine, untouched, as if the cleaning service had been maintaining a museum exhibit rather than a home.
The kitchen was all stainless steel and white marble. State-of-the-art appliances that had never been used. The bedroom held a king-sized bed with crisp white linens that had probably been changed regularly despite no one ever sleeping in them.
It was beautiful. Soulless. A perfect reflection of what Adrian thought I needed—luxury, security, independence—without understanding that what I'd actually needed was for him to fight for me. To tell his family to go to hell and choose me instead.
But he hadn't. And this empty loft was the consolation prize.
I stood in the center of the living room with my phone in my hand, turning it over and over. The device felt heavier than it should have, weighted with what I was about to do.
Calling Julian meant stepping into his game. Admitting he had leverage over me. Not just my mother's necklace, though that alone would have been enough. But also the truth of what I was. What I'd been trained to become in Vorkuta.
He'd seen me in that alley. Seen the way I moved. The precision with which I'd broken that drunk's fingers. And in seeing me, he'd stripped away the careful facade I'd built. The widow's grief. The soft voice. The lowered eyes that said I'm harmless.
But Julian wasn't afraid. That was the problem.
He was intrigued.
I pulled up his contact and stared at the number. My thumb hovered over the call button while my mind ran through possible outcomes. In Kholod, we'd been taught that every word was a transaction. You either gained leverage or surrendered it.
Calling Julian now was a surrender of sorts.
But the alternative was worse. The alternative was letting him hold my mother's necklace while I pretended not to care. And I'd learned in Vorkuta that waiting for the enemy to act was how you ended up dead.
I pressed call.
He answered on the third ring. "Evelyn." He drew out my name like he was tasting it. "You're a day late."
The accusation was playful. But I heard the edge underneath. The reminder that he'd set terms and I'd already failed to meet them.
My fingers tightened on the phone. "I'm calling now. I don't want to drag this out."
"Straight to business then." Leather creaked on his end. He was settling into a chair. "I'm listening."
I took a breath and launched into the explanation I'd rehearsed. "I learned self-defense in Russia. It was part of my education there. Nothing sinister. Just practical skills for a woman living alone in a foreign country."
"Self-defense." He repeated the words slowly, examining them for flaws. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what it was." I let defensiveness creep into my voice. The kind a normal woman would feel. "I'm not going to apologize for learning to protect myself."
"I'm not asking you to apologize." His tone shifted, became thoughtful. "But you have to admit, it's more than basic self-defense when you can disarm a man twice your size in under three seconds. That takes real training."
My heart kicked against my ribs. I forced the panic down. "I had a good instructor. And I was motivated. Women in Russia, especially foreign women, we had to be careful. The stakes were higher."
"Higher than what?" He pounced on the slip. "Higher than here in Manhattan? Where you're surrounded by security and family money and the Winthrop name?"
I bit back the instinctive retort. That the Winthrop name had done nothing when Elizabeth ordered me out this morning. That security meant nothing when the real threats came from inside the house.
"Russia was different," I said quietly. I let my voice carry the weight of things I wouldn't say. "I learned what I needed to survive there. But the Winthrop family wouldn't understand. They'd see it as unseemly. Inappropriate for someone in my position."
"Ah." Satisfaction colored his voice. "So that's what you're worried about. Not that I know what you can do, but that I might tell someone."
"Yes." No point in elaborate justifications. He was too smart for that. "That's exactly what I'm worried about."
He laughed. Low and dangerous. "Well, at least you're honest about it. I appreciate that."
"I'm not asking for charity," I said. The words came out sharper than I intended, edged with frustration. "I'm asking for discretion."
"In exchange for what?" He cut me off smoothly. His voice took on a predatory quality that made my skin prickle. "You haven't exactly offered me anything, Evelyn. You're just hoping I'll keep your secret out of the goodness of my heart. But we both know I'm not a gentleman."
My jaw clenched. "What do you want?"
"Nothing you're not already offering." His voice warmed, became almost kind. But there was steel beneath it. "You called because you want me to keep quiet. And I will. On one condition."
I waited. My free hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into my palm.
"Stop pretending you're something you're not."
He paused. The silence stretched for several heartbeats.
"At least not with me," he added, his voice dropping lower.