Chapter 37
Evelyn's POV
The invitation arrived on cream-colored cardstock, embossed with gold lettering that caught the light like a promise—or a threat. I held it between my fingers in the dim sanctuary of my Tribeca loft, studying Adrian's familiar handwriting beneath the printed formalities.
The Plaza Hotel. Saturday, 8 PM. Black tie.
Please come. —A.
The second delivery came an hour later via encrypted message from Viktor, my handler's ghost in the machine. A complete fabricated identity: Celeste Moreau, an art authenticator from Paris.
Her background included social media footprints dating back five years, bank records showing modest consulting fees, and a carefully curated network of professional contacts who would have corroborated her existence if anyone had bothered to check. The kind of meticulous cover I could slip into like a second skin, the kind that had kept me alive through twenty-nine assignments without hesitation.
I spread both documents across my coffee table. Professional instinct warred with personal promise.
The smart play was obvious—attend as Celeste, maintain operational security, keep my real identity buried beneath layers of carefully constructed fiction. I could call Adrian right now, claim a migraine or exhaustion or some vague excuse about needing time alone to process Arthur's death.
He'd understand. He always understood. Then I'd show up at the gala as someone else entirely, slip in through the service entrance with my fabricated credentials, complete the mission, and disappear before anyone connected Celeste Moreau to Evelyn Valentine.
It would be clean. Safe. Professional.
My fingers hovered over Adrian's contact in my phone. One call. One lie. It wouldn't even be the first time I'd lied to him today, or this week, or in the five years since I'd returned from Russia. What was one more deception in an ocean of them?
But Julian's voice echoed in my memory, that low drawl in the bathroom at Elizabeth's dinner: "I want to see the real you. No more masks."
I'd made him a promise. A stupid, reckless promise that went against every survival instinct Vorkuta had beaten into me. No more pretending, at least not in front of him.
The thought made something twist in my chest—anger, maybe, or shame, or just the bone-deep exhaustion of maintaining so many lies for so long. I was tired of being afraid. Tired of hiding. Tired of letting other people's expectations dictate every choice I made.
I picked up my phone and typed a message to Viktor before I could second-guess myself.
Use my real name.
His response came immediately: That's a mistake.
Maybe. But it's mine to make.
I hit send and felt something shift inside me, like the first crack in a dam that had been holding back a flood for five years. This was either the beginning of honesty or the end of everything I'd built. Possibly both.
My phone rang. Viktor, of course. I answered on the third ring.
"You're compromising operational security," he said without preamble, his Russian accent thicker than usual—a sign he was genuinely concerned. "Using your real identity puts you at risk. Puts the mission at risk. If something goes wrong—"
"Then I'll handle it," I cut him off. "I've already been to the venue. The setup is done. All I need to do tonight is be present when it happens. And I can do that as myself."
"Why?" The question was flat, demanding. "Why take this risk for no tactical advantage?"
Because I'd promised Julian I'd stop pretending. Because I was tired of lying to Adrian's face. Because attending Arthur's charity gala as someone else felt like the final betrayal of whatever we'd once meant to each other. Because I wanted—just once—to walk into a room as myself and not as a carefully constructed fiction.
But I couldn't say any of that to Viktor.
"Because Evelyn Valentine has a reason to be there," I said instead. "Adrian invited me personally. It would be stranger if I didn't show up, especially after the scene at Elizabeth's dinner. People are already talking about me. If I suddenly become a ghost, they'll talk more. And if they start digging into my absence, they might stumble onto Celeste."
It wasn't the real reason, but it was plausible enough. Viktor was silent for a long moment, and I could almost hear him running through scenarios, calculating risks.
"Fine," he said finally. "But if this goes wrong, if you're compromised, we won't extract you. You understand that?"
"I understand."
I sat there in the dim light of my Tribeca loft, staring at Adrian's invitation and Viktor's encrypted message, feeling the weight of the choice I'd just made settle over me like a shroud. I'd chosen honesty over safety, visibility over invisibility, Evelyn over Celeste.
Now I just had to hope it wouldn't get me killed.
---
The Plaza's Grand Ballroom glittered with Manhattan's elite, crystal and champagne and the particular brand of cruelty that came wrapped in Hermès scarves and polite smiles. I walked through those doors as Evelyn Valentine, widow of Arthur Winthrop, and felt the weight of every eye in the room tracking my progress across the polished floor.
The whispers started immediately. That's her. The one living in Adrian's building while he's courting the Russell girl. Shameless.
I kept my spine straight, my expression neutral, the midnight blue Valentino gown moving with me like liquid armor. High-necked and long-sleeved to hide Vorkuta's scars, but cut in a way that suggested I wasn't here to apologize for existing.
Marcus Caldwell stood near the bar, silver hair catching the light as he held court with a cluster of defense contractors. My target. Right where he was supposed to be, following the patterns I'd memorized. His two bodyguards flanked him at their usual discreet distance, ex-military precision in every movement.
Then Julian Russell materialized at my elbow with two glasses of champagne and that smile that suggested he knew exactly what I was thinking.
"Evelyn." He offered me a glass, his gray eyes bright with something that might have been amusement or might have been calculation—with Julian, it was often both. "I have to admit, I didn't think you'd actually show up. Thought you might send your regrets, claim a headache, avoid the whole uncomfortable situation."