Chapter 89
Evelyn's POV
Isabella didn't notice the sound, too focused on her phone, but I felt it like a physical touch, a reminder of what I was leaving behind.
I caught his eye through the crack in the bedroom door. He was watching me with that unreadable expression, and I couldn't tell if he was angry or amused or something else entirely. Then he did something unexpected—he smiled, just slightly, and made a small shooing motion with his hand.
Go, that gesture said. I'll be fine.
But the tightness around his eyes told a different story, and I knew we'd be having a conversation about this later. One I wasn't looking forward to.
"Evelyn?" Isabella looked up from her phone. "You're still standing there. Go get dressed! The stores open in an hour and I want to hit Bergdorf's before the crowds arrive."
I retreated to the bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Julian was still in the armchair, now scrolling through his own phone, the picture of casual indifference. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Don't be." He didn't look up. "You're doing exactly what you said you'd do—keeping this secret. I knew what I was signing up for."
"Julian—"
"Go shopping with Isabella. Buy something pretty. Have fun." Now he did look up, and his smile was sharp enough to cut. "I'll just be here, hiding in your bedroom like a good little secret. Maybe I'll raid your fridge. Watch some TV. Make myself at home."
The sarcasm was thick enough to choke on, but beneath it I heard something else—hurt, frustration, the kind of wounded pride that came from a man who wasn't used to being anyone's dirty secret.
I wanted to go to him, to kiss away that sharp smile, to explain that this wasn't about him at all. But Isabella was waiting, and the longer I delayed, the more suspicious it would look.
So I grabbed clothes from my closet—black jeans, a cashmere sweater, ankle boots—and changed quickly, acutely aware of Julian's gaze on me the entire time. When I emerged, he'd gone back to his phone, his posture radiating studied disinterest.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," I said quietly.
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, "Though I might answer if someone calls. Just to keep myself entertained."
It was a threat and a promise wrapped in false lightness, and we both knew it. If someone came to the door, if something happened, he wasn't going to hide. Not anymore.
I wanted to argue, to make him promise to stay out of sight, but Isabella called from the living room—"Evie! Come on!"—and I was out of time.
Julian caught my wrist as I moved past him, his grip gentle but firm. "Evelyn."
I turned to look at him, and for just a moment, his mask slipped. I saw the real emotion beneath—not anger, but something rawer, more vulnerable.
"Be careful," he said quietly, then seemed to think better of whatever else he'd been about to say. "Never mind. Just... stay safe."
Then he released me, and I was walking out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me, leaving him alone in my apartment with nothing but his phone and his wounded pride for company.
Isabella was already by the door, practically vibrating with excitement. "Ready? Oh, this is going to be so much fun! I've been dying to do a proper shopping trip with you."
I grabbed my purse, checked that my phone was on silent, and followed her out into the hallway. As the elevator doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of my apartment door, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a mistake.
But Isabella was already chattering about which stores we should hit first, and I didn't have the energy to fight it.
So I followed her out into the morning, leaving Julian alone with his resentment and whatever thoughts were brewing behind those sharp gray eyes.
---
Bergdorf Goodman was exactly the kind of place I'd learned to navigate with careful precision—all gleaming surfaces and attentive staff who could smell money and desperation in equal measure. Isabella swept through the doors like she owned the place, immediately flagging down a personal shopper with the kind of casual entitlement that came from a lifetime of privilege.
"We need everything," Isabella announced, gesturing at me like I was a project to be managed. "Complete wardrobe overhaul. She's been wearing nothing but black and navy for months, and while it's very chic widow, I think it's time for some color. Some life!"
The personal shopper—a severe woman named Margot who looked like she could cut glass with her cheekbones—sized me up with a practiced eye. "What's the occasion?"
"Just... existing," Isabella said brightly. "Being young and alive and not hiding in her apartment all the time."
I felt my phone buzz in my purse and resisted the urge to check it. Probably Julian, probably saying something sarcastic about being abandoned. I'd deal with it later.
Margot led us to a private fitting room, already pulling pieces from racks with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Isabella settled onto one of the plush chairs, kicking off her shoes and curling her legs under her like a cat.
"This is going to be amazing," she said, watching as Margot began hanging clothes on the rack. "I'm thinking jewel tones. Maybe some emerald green? Oh, and that burgundy dress—yes, that one. Evelyn would look stunning in that."
My phone buzzed again. And again.
"Your phone's blowing up," Isabella observed. "Hot date?"
"Just work." I pulled it out, intending to silence it completely, and saw three messages from Julian:
Having fun yet?
Found your vodka. Hope you don't mind.
Your refrigerator is depressingly empty. Do you actually eat, or do you just survive on coffee and spite?
Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. Even irritated and hidden away in my apartment, he couldn't help being himself.
Isabella was watching me with interest. "You're smiling."