Chapter 64
Evelyn's POV
The first thing I registered was the absence of weight beside me.
My eyes opened to find Julian's side of the bed empty, the sheets still holding the faint warmth of his body but cooling rapidly in the room.
The pillow bore the impression of his head, and I could smell him on the fabric—sandalwood and something darker, more primal.
Of course he left, I thought, staring at the ceiling as my heartbeat settled into its usual steady rhythm. This was exactly what I should have expected from him. Last night's intensity, the way he'd held me like I was something precious, the whispered promises against my skin—none of it meant he'd stay to face the awkward morning after.
Even if he'd been attentive last night, even if he'd made me feel things I'd convinced myself I was no longer capable of feeling, it didn't mean he loved me. It probably meant nothing more than a twisted possessiveness over a married woman—or rather, a widow. The distinction mattered less than the perverse thrill he seemed to derive from it.
Maybe seven years ago he'd wanted me precisely because I was Arthur's wife, I thought with a bitter twist of my mouth. Maybe the forbidden nature of it had been the entire point, the challenge of claiming something that belonged to another man.
And now that I was a widow, now that the obstacle of Arthur's existence had been removed, perhaps it satisfied some darker psychological need in him. The conquest of a woman in mourning, still wearing her dead husband's name.
Maybe knowing I'd been a virgin had actually disappointed him. Maybe he'd been expecting more experience, more skill, more of the practiced seductress rather than the fumbling reality of someone who'd never been touched that way before.
I cycled through every possible explanation, each one more cynical than the last, building walls around the tender places inside me that last night had threatened to expose. Telling myself over and over that there was no love between us. That he felt nothing for me beyond physical desire and the thrill of forbidden conquest. That I felt nothing for him beyond the desperate need for human connection in what might be my final hours.
But even as I constructed these defenses, I couldn't ignore the strange tightness in my chest. The way my ribs seemed to constrict around my heart, making each breath feel slightly labored. The warmth that spread through me when I thought about the way he'd looked at me last night, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Over-exertion, I told myself firmly. That was the only logical explanation. We'd been at it for hours, barely pausing for breath between rounds. My body was simply recovering from the physical strain.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, bracing myself for what I'd find. Viktor's wrath would be swift and brutal. There would be threats, warnings, perhaps even the activation of whatever contingency plans the organization had in place for agents who failed their final mission.
But when I unlocked the screen and scrolled through my messages, what I found made me go completely still.
Viktor: [Mission accomplished. Target confirmed eliminated. Congratulations on completing your thirtieth contract. As of 0600 hours, your obligations to Kholod are fulfilled. Welcome to your freedom.]
I read the message three times, each word sinking in with increasing disbelief.
Mission accomplished? Target confirmed eliminated?
My hands were shaking as I pulled up the news on my phone. It took only seconds to find the breaking story plastered across every major outlet.
SENATOR MARCUS CALDWELL FOUND DEAD IN PLAZA HOTEL
Prominent Reformer Dies in Apparent Shooting
Investigation Underway into Suspicious Circumstances
The article included a photo of the Plaza Hotel, police tape cordoning off the entrance. Another showed Caldwell's official Senate portrait, his earnest face frozen in a smile that would never be seen again.
But he wasn't dead. I knew he wasn't dead because I'd deliberately missed his heart, because Julian had told me last night he was alive, because I'd made a choice in that crucial moment to preserve a life rather than end it.
So how—
Did that shot not kill him immediately, but he died later from complications?
I threw off the covers, barely registering the soreness between my thighs as I stumbled out of bed. I grabbed the first piece of clothing I could find—one of Julian's t-shirts from last night, still carrying his scent—and yanked it over my head as I rushed out of the bedroom.
The loft was flooded with morning light, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the Tribeca skyline. The industrial space looked different in daylight—the exposed brick and steel beams that had seemed cold and utilitarian last night now appeared almost warm, almost lived-in.
I found Julian in the open kitchen area, standing at the stove with his back to me. He was shirtless, wearing only the dark jeans from last night, his feet bare on the concrete floor.
The morning light streaming through the windows caught the planes of his bare back, highlighting the shift of muscle beneath skin as he moved. The casual competence of his movements—the way he cracked eggs one-handed, the efficient flip of bread in the pan—spoke of someone comfortable in kitchens, someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
It was such an ordinary sight. A man making breakfast in a sun-filled kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, moving with the easy confidence of someone who belonged there.
The normalcy of it disarmed me completely.
For a moment, I forgot why I'd rushed out here. Forgot the panic that had driven me from the bed, the desperate need to understand what happened to Caldwell, the weight of Viktor's message burning in my phone. All of it dissolved in the face of this simple, domestic tableau.
Julian, cooking breakfast in my kitchen. Still here. Still present. Not gone like I'd assumed, like I'd feared, like every instinct had told me he would be.
"You're still here," I said, the words coming out more surprised than I intended.