Chapter 40
Julian's POV
"Oh, I make a habit of monitoring everything about you, sweetheart." I smiled, pulling Evelyn closer as we navigated a complex series of turns. "It's what I do. And what I've noticed is that you've been watching Senator Caldwell all evening with the kind of focus that suggests more than casual curiosity."
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might actually faint, which would have been unfortunate—fainting widows drew attention, and attention was the last thing either of us needed right now.
But she recovered quickly, her expression smoothing back into that careful mask. "You're imagining things. Senator Caldwell means nothing to me. Arthur mentioned him a few times, that's all. I was simply curious to see him in person."
"Really?" I tightened my grip on her waist, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her that I was in control of this dance, this moment, this entire situation. "Then why did your breathing just change when I said his name? Why can I feel your pulse racing like you've just run a marathon?"
For a long moment, she didn't answer, and I could see her mind working behind those stunning eyes, calculating odds and outcomes. Finally, she said, "Maybe I'm nervous because you keep touching me in ways that would scandalize half the people in this room. Because you're making assumptions that could destroy what's left of my reputation."
Clever. Turn it back on me, make this about the inappropriate contact rather than whatever she'd been planning for Caldwell. I had to admire the misdirection, even as I filed it away as more evidence of professional training.
"The game," I murmured, leaning in close enough that my lips nearly brushed her ear, "is that there is no game. I told you to stop pretending, Evelyn. That includes pretending you're some fragile widow who needs protecting. We both know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself."
Before she could respond—before I could push her any further toward that delicious edge where the mask would finally crack—the lights flickered once, twice, and then plunged the ballroom into sudden darkness.
The orchestra stuttered to a halt. Around us, guests gasped and laughed nervously, that performative surprise that suggested this was planned rather than a genuine emergency. Through the darkness, I heard the master of ceremonies boom out cheerfully, "Ladies and gentlemen, the annual Exchange Waltz! When the lights return, you must be dancing with a new partner! The darkness will last for exactly ten seconds, so choose wisely!"
Ten seconds of darkness. Ten seconds where people could move and shift and exchange partners in the anonymous black.
I tightened my grip on Evelyn reflexively, intending to keep her exactly where she was until the lights came back and this ridiculous tradition was over. Ten seconds wasn't enough time for her to reach Caldwell anyway, not in a crowded ballroom where she'd have to navigate blind.
But she was already moving, twisting in my arms with a fluidity that caught me completely off guard. I felt her hands find pressure points in my wrist—pressure points I hadn't even known existed—and my fingers went momentarily numb, my grip loosening just enough for her to slip free.
"Evelyn—" I started, reaching for her in the darkness, but she was already gone, disappearing into the crowd with the kind of efficiency that spoke of serious training.
Damn it.
I could have gone after her, should have gone after her, but in the pitch black with bodies moving everywhere, I'd be just as blind as everyone else. And it was only ten seconds. What could she possibly accomplish in ten seconds?
I counted down in my head, waiting for the lights to return, already planning how I'd find her again, how I'd make sure she stayed away from Caldwell for the rest of the evening. Five seconds. Four. Three.
The lights blazed back to life, and I found myself holding some society matron who looked as surprised as I probably should have felt. I guided my temporary partner through the remaining movements with practiced ease, my mind already calculating how I'd track Evelyn down once this song ended.
Ten seconds of darkness wasn't enough time for Evelyn to accomplish anything meaningful. The ballroom was packed with bodies, Caldwell was somewhere in the crowd under my team's watchful eyes, and Evelyn would have to navigate through hundreds of guests just to get close to him.
She was good, but she wasn't that good.
The orchestra swung into the final bars of the waltz, and I released the society matron with a polite nod, my eyes already scanning the ballroom for that distinctive midnight blue dress as the music faded.
Nothing. Evelyn had vanished as completely as if she'd never been there at all.
But that was fine. The ballroom was packed with people, all of them milling around in the aftermath of the partner exchange. Caldwell was still on the terrace—I'd positioned men there specifically to keep an eye on him—and Evelyn couldn't possibly navigate through this crowd, find the senator, and do whatever she'd been planning in the few minutes since the lights had come back on.
I had time. All the time in the world.
The orchestra resumed playing, and I made my way toward the edge of the dance floor, intending to reestablish visual contact with my security team, confirm Caldwell's location, and track down wherever Evelyn had disappeared to.
That's when I noticed the first problem.
My earpiece was silent. Not just quiet—completely dead. No background chatter from my team, no status updates, nothing. I reached up to check the connection and felt my blood go cold.
The wire had been cut. Not torn, not accidentally damaged, but cut with surgical precision, the kind of clean slice that required an extremely sharp blade and steady hands.
Cut before we started dancing. Cut while I'd been so focused on the verbal sparring that I'd missed her making her actual move. Not toward Caldwell, but toward me, eliminating my ability to communicate with my team in one smooth, professional gesture.
She'd been close enough to touch me, to cut me, to quite literally disable my command and control capabilities, and I'd been too busy admiring her audacity to notice the physical threat.
"Fuck," I muttered, pulling out my phone as a backup. Seventeen missed calls from my team, all of them from the last ten minutes. All of them while I'd been dancing with Evelyn, completely deaf to their attempts to warn me about—
About what?
I was scrolling through the messages when Marcus Webb, my second-in-command, appeared at my elbow. His face was grim, his usual composure cracked just enough to send alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Boss," he said, his voice low and urgent. "We've got a problem."