Page 23 of Until She's Mine
Beneath it, fresh ink glistens:
When will you stop hiding, Evelyn?
I should throw it away—burn it, even. It’s dangerous, this quiet rebellion he’s feeding into me, this temptation to peel back the layers of my carefully constructed life.
But I don’t.
I tuck it into my bag, alongside his sketch, as if hiding them from myself will make the inevitable any less real.
Chapter 11
Evelyn
Ispend the rest of the week pretending that nothing had happened. The museum becomes my sanctuary, the Madonna painting my sole focus. I lose myself in the delicate process of stabilizing the cracked varnish and repairing the splintered wood. Marcus watches me with concern, his questions laced with suspicions, but I deflect them with practiced ease. Tobias is busy with his usual social whirl—late nights at the club, early mornings at the office, and the occasional perfunctory text to check in. I tell myself it’s a relief, this distance. It gives me space to think, breathe, and suppress the chaos Lucian has unleashed.
But space is a dangerous thing. It leaves room for memories to surface: the heat of Lucian’s gaze, the weight of his words, and the sensation of his lips on mine. I try to push them away, but they linger like shadows, creeping into my thoughts when I least expect them. I find myself glancing over my shoulder in crowdedrooms, half-expecting to see him watching me from the edges. At night, my dreams are restless, filled with fragments of him.
By Friday, I’m fraying at the edges. The Madonna’s restoration is nearly complete, but my focus is slipping. My head throbs in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall. I blink at the painting under my brush, the colors swimming together. Three cups of coffee and two Ibuprofen pills haven’t touched the fever burning behind my eyes.
“Christ, Laurent.” Marcus’s shadow falls across my workspace. “You look like death warmed over.”
I don’t lift my head. “Flatterer.”
He snatches the paintbrush from my hand and sets it aside. “Go home, Evelyn. You’re no use to anyone like this.”
“I just need to finish this—” My vision swims as I straighten, and Marcus grabs my arm to steady me.
“Bullshit. You’re pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.” He guides me to a chair. “When was the last time you slept?”
I don’t answer. Sleep has been elusive these past few nights, my dreams haunted by Lucian.
Marcus sighs. “Look, I know things have been complicated lately. But you need to take care of yourself. This—” he gestures at the half-finished painting, “—can wait.”
I nod numbly, too exhausted to argue. Marcus helps me gather my things and walks me to the door, his concern etched into the lines of his face. The late spring sun warms my skin as I step outside. My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I reach the curb. A familiar black car pulls up, its tinted windows reflecting the sunlight.
The driver steps out, a man in a crisp suit with an air of practiced efficiency. “Miss Laurent,” he says, opening the door. “Mr. Blackwood sent me.”
My stomach twists.
Of course, he did.
“Which one?” I ask, knowing the answer before it leaves the driver’s lips.
“Mr. Lucian Blackwood. He thought you might require assistance.”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Lucian’s attention is both suffocating and irresistible, a paradox I can’t seem to escape. His presumption should infuriate me, but it only deepens the ache in my chest.
Nodding stiffly, I slide into the backseat.
Rain slicks the pavement as I stumble into my apartment building. The elevator smells like bleach and Chinese takeout, and the fluorescent lights hurt my eyes. I don’t remember unlocking the door. Don’t remember kicking off my shoes. Just the blessed relief of collapsing onto my couch, the world tilting as my head meets the cushion. My eyelids flutter shut, and the world fades into a hazy blur.
The sleep has almost claimed me when the doorbell rings.
I consider ignoring it. Then it rings again.
I drag myself to the door, my body heavy with exhaustion, and peer through the peephole.
My breath catches.
