That part isn’t in question, it never was.
But beauty by itself has never held my attention for long. Beauty is everywhere if you have money and the kind of life I do. Beauty can be bought a hundred different ways. Beauty turns up at your table, slides into your lap, says your name like a prayer, and leaves before morning without taking anything with her except the illusion that she mattered.
Evelyn is not that kind of woman. She’s sharp enough to cut and smart enough to know where to place the blade. She has her own gravity. And for the last few weeks, while all of us have been pulled into Houston and into the Bellandi mess here, into helping Elijah claw his way through blood and panic and fury to get his woman back, I’ve found myself watching her far more than I should.
Not because she invites it, because she doesn’t. Not because she flirts, because she mostly doesn’t do that either.
But because every time she opens her mouth, I get the sense that there’s more there than the room is giving her credit for, and every time I see her beside Mark, the contrast irritates me more than it should.
He doesn’t look at her the way a man should look at a woman like that. He looks at her like she completes the image he wants for his life.
Like she fits. Like she polishes something in him. And that, more than anything else, tells me he doesn’t understand what he has.
A woman like Evelyn is not an accessory. She isn’t the final button on a well-tailored suit or the pretty thing on a powerful man’s arm that tells the room his life is in order. She is the prize. The sort of woman you are proud to stand beside because everyone in the room should know you somehow earned her attention.
Or stole it. Or survived long enough under her gaze to keep it.
Mark rests his hand at her waist again, and something in me goes still.
Not jealous, I’m not built that way.
Jealousy is reactive, messy, beneath me, this is colder than that. More precise. Assessment. Dissatisfaction. Recognition.
He is handling her wrong. And then, as if she can feel the weight of being observed, she glances across the room and catches me looking.
I don’t look away. Her expression changes only slightly, but I see it. A minute sharpening around the eyes. A warning disguised as composure. She says something to Mark, I can’t hear it from here, but I can tell from his face that he assumes she’ll be back in a moment, and then she turns and walks toward me.
I set the untouched drink down on the nearest table and wait for her to close the distance. She stops close enough that this could still pass for polite conversation if anyone chose not to listen too closely.
“You’re still here,” she says, one brow lifting. “I thought men like you slipped out the second family obligations were over.”
The corner of my mouth turns. There she is.
“Men like me?” I ask lightly.
Her gaze moves over me in a way that would be flattering if it weren’t so clearly evaluative.
“Yes,” she says. “The ones who always seem like they’ve got somewhere better to be.”
“Maybe I do,” I reply. “And maybe I haven’t found it yet.”
That earns me the smallest pause. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for me. She folds one arm loosely across her waist, fingertips brushing the opposite elbow. Defensive posture disguised as casual. Clever.
“This is still a family event,” I add. “I’d be rude to disappear too early.”
“Somehow,” she says dryly, “I don’t imagine rudeness is what keeps you up at night.”
“No,” I say. “But boredom does.”
Her eyes narrow just slightly, and I enjoy that more than I should. We let the silence sit between us for a moment, not empty, just weighted, and then my attention flicks once toward Mark before returning to her.
“He doesn’t deserve you.”
The words land exactly the way I intend them to. Direct enough that there’s no pretending she misheard me. Her jaw tightens.
“That’s a bold thing to say about a relationship you know nothing about.”
“I know enough.”
