Page 23 of Queen of Ruin

I clear my throat and finish adjusting myself while Bethany’s back is to me.

“When Darren told me it would please you greatly to see the Emerson letters, well,” she pauses and turns to me, “I couldn’t say no.”

Evangeline hesitates, and I sense the conflict in her eyes, the way she fights to keep little pieces of herself hidden. “I was a literature major in college.”

“The pursuit of the arts is always a noble one,” Bethany declares, giving me a wink. “Emerson obviously thought so.”

Evangeline laughs. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

“It’s no more noble than graduating Georgetown Law top of their class,” Bethany directs her accusatory eyes towards me.

“Thank you, but we don’t want to keep you any longer.” Evangeline grabs her jacket from the rack by the door. “I’m sure you have better things to do than indulge my fascination with Emerson.”

“It’s my pleasure. Anything for Darren.” She gives me a knowing smile and then turns to Evangeline. “We’ll be in touch about the foundation.”

“Thank you, Bethany.” I give her a chaste kiss on the cheek and then take Evangeline’s hand, leading her from the room and back down the long hallway towards the rotunda.

“You were charming?” I tease.

“I can behave, Darren. Your lack of confidence is disappointing.”

“This outfit says otherwise.” My eyes drop to her short skirt.

“You don’t like?” She flicks the hem.

“I like it very much.”

When we reach the door at the end of the long hallway, I clear my throat and turn towards her.

“Thank you.” I don’t say it often enough, and aim to rectify that.

Evangeline tilts her head. “I should be thanking you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know how much it means to you, and it would be selfish of me to deny you when it’s within my power.”

Her eyes turn a deeper shade of blue, and her lips part.

“You seem to have a lot of influence, Darren Walker.”

“When you have enough money…”

“No,” she interrupts, “it’s not because of your money.”

I’d say she’s looking at me with admiration, but I know better. No, it’s more like understanding, the kind of understanding when someone sees deep down inside of you, and it’s unnerving.

“Why were you thanking me earlier?” she asks.

“For running interference with Bethany,” I explain.

“For someone so narcissistic, you don’t take compliments well,” she teases.

It’s that smart mouth that brings back the ache deep in my belly.

“It’s clear Bethany adores you,” she adds.

“People would always say I had my father’s charm and wit. It felt more like a burden than a compliment.”

“And now?”

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