Chapter 92
Julian's POV
I sat up straighter, my full attention on the screen now.
What did you say?
That my love life is complicated.
And?
She said that's code for 'yes but I don't want to talk about it' and then asked if it was someone she knows.
Fuck.
What did you tell her?
That she's reading too much into things. But Julian—she's not stupid. She knows something's going on.
I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: Do you think she suspects us specifically?
I don't know. Maybe. She keeps making comments about how 'Julia' sends a lot of messages for an assistant.
We could tell her.
The three dots appeared and disappeared so many times I thought my phone might be malfunctioning.
No.
Evelyn—
No. Not Isabella. Not yet.
I wanted to argue, to point out that if Isabella already suspected something then we might as well confirm it and control the narrative. But I also knew that pushing her on this would only make her dig in harder.
Fine. But if she asks me directly, I'm not going to lie to her.
She won't ask you. She'll ask me. And I'll handle it.
By lying?
By being vague and noncommittal until she gets bored and moves on to something else.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, trying to work out the knot of frustration in my chest. This was exactly what I'd signed up for when I agreed to be her secret—the constant hiding, the careful lies, the knowledge that she was willing to do whatever it took to keep us separate from the rest of her life.
But knowing I'd agreed to it didn't make it any easier to swallow.
How much longer?
Nail salon just opened up a slot for us. Another hour, maybe two.
Two more hours of sitting here alone, going through her things, trying not to think about all the ways this could blow up in our faces.
Fine. I'm ordering lunch. What do you want?
I'm not hungry.
That wasn't the question.
A pause, then: Surprise me. But nothing too heavy.
I felt some of the tension ease out of my shoulders. It was a small thing, letting me make decisions for her, but after this morning's disaster it felt like progress.
I'll take care of it. Try not to let Isabella talk you into anything too ridiculous.
Too late. She already convinced me to buy a dress.
What color?
Burgundy.
I remembered Isabella's message about the dress, the way she'd said Evelyn looked amazing in it. The fact that Evelyn had actually bought it—had let Isabella convince her to step outside her usual armor of black and navy—felt significant in a way I couldn't quite articulate.
Can't wait to see it.
You're not going to see it. I'm probably never going to wear it.
We'll see about that.
I could practically feel her rolling her eyes through the phone, and despite everything, it made me smile.
---
I ordered from the Italian place down the street—pasta for her because she needed to eat something with actual substance, and a sandwich for myself because I wasn't particularly hungry but knew I should probably eat anyway. While I waited for the delivery, I went back to digging through the Blackstone files.
The more I looked, the more convinced I became that Cassius Martin was behind the frame job. The timeline matched up—the assassination attempt had happened less than two weeks after Winthrop Industries had beaten Blackstone on a major Pentagon contract. And Martin had the kind of connections in the intelligence community that would give him access to a Russian assassination network.
But I still couldn't find the smoking gun, the concrete evidence that would tie him directly to the plot.
My phone buzzed with another message from Evelyn.
Isabella wants to know if I'll come to her engagement party.
I felt my jaw tighten. The engagement party—the official announcement that Adrian was marrying Isabella, that the two families were cementing their alliance, that Evelyn's place in Adrian's life was being permanently redefined as something distant and irrelevant.
Next Saturday. Are you going to go?
She says I'm family. That she wants me there.
That's not what I asked.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times.
I don't know. It feels wrong. Like I'd be intruding on something that's not mine to be part of.
You're his stepmother. Technically you have more right to be there than half the people who'll show up.
That's not how it works and you know it.
She was right, of course. The legal technicality of her relationship to Adrian meant nothing compared to the reality of what they'd been to each other, what they maybe still were to each other despite everything.
Do you want to go?
Another long pause.
No. But I think I have to.
Why?
Because if I don't, it'll look like I'm avoiding it. Like I have something to hide.
You do have something to hide.
Not that. Not anymore. Whatever was between Adrian and me—it's over. It's been over since I left five years ago.
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that what we had was real and present and more important than whatever ghost still lingered between her and Adrian.
But I also knew that feelings didn't just disappear because you wanted them to, and that the kind of connection she'd had with Adrian—the kind that had survived five years of separation and God knew what else—didn't just evaporate overnight.
If you go, I'm going with you.
Julian—
As your date. Publicly. So everyone knows exactly where things stand.
That's a terrible idea.
Probably. But I'm doing it anyway.
The three dots appeared and disappeared so many times I lost count.
We'll talk about it later.
Which meant no, but she didn't want to fight about it over text message while Isabella was probably hovering nearby trying to read over her shoulder.
Fine. But I meant what I said. I'm not hiding anymore, Evelyn. Not from Isabella, not from Adrian, not from anyone.
I know.
Those two words carried a weight of resignation that made my chest tighten. She knew I was serious, knew I was going to push this whether she wanted me to or not, and she was already bracing herself for the fallout.
The delivery arrived, and I busied myself setting out the food on her kitchen counter. The pasta smelled good—garlic and basil and something else I couldn't quite identify—and I found myself hoping she'd actually eat it instead of picking at it while her mind raced through all the ways our relationship could destroy everything she'd been trying to protect.
My phone buzzed again.
Change of plans. Isabella wants to get lunch. Then hit SoHo. I think she's planning to keep me hostage until dinnertime.