7. Evelyn
7
EVELYN
M onday evening, I find myself once again standing in front of my closet, trying to figure out what on earth to wear to dinner to meet a man I hardly know—who is also my fiance. Not a first date, not a meeting—a dinner with the man I’m going to marry, and I don’t even know his middle name.
It’s an impossibly strange situation, compounding an already difficult day. I’m not a person of routine, exactly—I don’t think many creative people are. But I’m used to spending my days at the shop, drafting patterns or working on sketches, stitching or doing fittings. I’m used to keeping my hands and my mind busy, and today for the first time in recent memory, I felt adrift.
I had things to do. I had to start calling my list of clients whose orders were lost in the fire, arranging for refunds, determining if their need-by dates were far enough out that there’s some possibility that the orders could be salvaged. Some, like Angela, were impossible. There’s no way I can have another dress ready for her by New Year’s, and her reaction to the news was…less than thrilled. She wasn’t very sympathetic, or understanding that I can’t just wave a magic wand and create something out of the ashes of what was left.
Most of my clients had more empathy for the situation, though, once I spoke with them, even if they were disappointed that they would have to find a different designer on such short notice or—horror of horrors—get something off the rack. I had one client who had arranged for her order a full year in advance, and I’m hopeful that with Dimitri’s offer of assistance, I might still be able to complete hers.
But for the most part, I’m going to be starting from scratch in every respect. And it only underlines the fact that Dimitri’s offer really is my only option. Not only will my insurance payout barely cover my debts and refunds, and not only do I not have any financial means of rebuilding on my own, but much of my client list will have abandoned me by the time I’m ready to start business back up again. Clients can be fickle, and they’ll find someone else to work with. A few have decided that, despite the fact that I couldn’t have anticipated my shop being set on fire, I’m not trustworthy any longer. I can’t be counted on to deliver, and so they’ve cut ties. And since my business also works on word of mouth, that’s damaging, too.
Dimitri might be able to help me there, too. He moves in circles like the ones that enabled me to pick up those clients from the party at the Met last year, and I might be able to replace those lost clients—and repair my damaged reputation via this marriage.
I never in a million years saw myself in an arranged marriage like this. But as insane as it sounds, it does make sense.
Sighing, I pull out a charcoal knit wrap dress from my closet, with a shawl collar and a flattering silhouette, and throw it on over tights, adding my black velvet boots. It’s not a very adventurous outfit, but this deal that I’m embarking on with Dimitri feels like enough adventure for one night. And it’s stylish enough for L’Riche, which is a much fancier place than I’ve ever been able to afford—and even more so than what Dahlia would take me out to for one of the ‘rich girl evenings’ she likes to spoil me with from time to time.
Speaking of Dahlia —she’s been blowing up my phone, and I’ve been so busy and exhausted today that I haven’t taken the time to call her back. I snap a picture of my outfit and makeup in the small mirror of my cramped bathroom, and send it to her, scrolling through her messages as I wait for her reply.
Dahlia: Are you really going through with it?
Dahlia: I’m not saying you shouldn’t. It really might be your best option. Just be careful.
Dahlia: Are you ok??? Text me back.
Dahlia: I’m coming over if you don’t let me know you’re alive.
Dahlia: Literally. I’m calling a cab.
And then, ten seconds after I send her the picture:
Dahlia: Damnnnn girl. You look incredible. He’s going to be the one who trips and falls when he sees you.
Dahlia: Like, literally. He might fall for you. Be careful. Men like that are used to getting what they want.
Evelyn: I know. It’s just a business deal. He’s putting it all in writing.
Dahlia: That doesn’t mean shit unless you can enforce it. But I’ll pay for a divorce lawyer if you need one, girl.
My stomach twists as I set the phone down, twisting the top off of a tube of dark berry lipstick. Deep down, I know Dahlia is right. Dimitri is rich, well-connected, and the heir to a powerful crime family. If he wants to keep me, there’s no telling what he might do to get what he wants. I shouldn’t trust him. I don’t know that I can trust him. For all that he seems genuine, I don’t really know him at all.
But I’m out of options. And if there’s one thing I’ve realized, it’s that Pearls ) See you soon, l’vitsa .
I press my lips together, wondering if I should tell him not to call me—whatever that means. I’m tempted to Google it, but I’m not sure if I actually want to know. I’d never admit it, but I’m afraid of finding something out that will make it impossible for me to go through with the deal. I know if I tell him no, my boutique is all but gone.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, leaning the side of my head against the window and watching the bright Christmas lights go by. The deal will be done soon enough. And then you only have to deal with him when absolutely necessary. Since I’ve taken sex off of the table, I’m sure Dimitri will find other entertainment. Once the legal necessities are finished and I’m moved in, so that we have all of the appearances of being married, he’ll likely ignore me.
The thought of him with another woman shouldn’t send a jolt of jealousy through me, but it does. I bite my lip, forcing myself not to think about it. I can’t expect him to be celibate, especially not when it’s not even a real marriage, and it’s not as if I should care. Nothing about this relationship is real. But for some reason, thinking of him with his hand on the small of another woman’s back, of him smirking at some other woman with that gleam of mischievous desire in his eyes—it makes something in my chest burn.
Just don’t think about it. I take a deep breath as the cab turns onto Fifth Avenue, the sidewalks crowded with people even on a weekday night. In a few minutes, I’m going to see him, and I need to make sure he isn’t getting the upper hand in this. Desire, jealousy—none of that has a place in what is essentially a business arrangement.
The cab slows to a stop outside of the restaurant, and I hand the driver a tip, sliding out into the frigid chill of the night. Through the large glass windows, I see Dimitri just inside, blond hair brushing the turned-up collar of his black wool peacoat, and my stomach flips nervously.
I’m going to marry him. That man is going to be my husband.
But not really. It’s not real. Just remember that. It’s. Not. Real.
I repeat those words over and over in my head, holding onto them like a lifeline as I pick my way down the icy sidewalk and step into the warm, spicy-scented interior of L’Riche.
Dimitri sees me the instant I walk inside. His head snaps in my direction as if he knew from my footsteps that it was me, the thought making my heart flip dangerously, and then again as his blue eyes catch mine. His gaze sweeps over me, and I could swear I see them darken, a sudden, hot desire in his gaze that makes my breath catch in my chest.
This man is so fucking dangerous. And not because he’s Bratva. Not because of anything other than the fact that no man has ever made my heart skip a beat or my breath catch before. Never made me feel like the room was suddenly too warm or like my knees have gone wobbly, made me feel lightheaded or like I want nothing more than to lean in and breathe the warm, masculine scent of his skin and his cologne.
Dimitri makes me feel all of that. All at once, in a heady rush that makes me stop in the entryway, swallowing hard as I scramble for my composure. And I can’t help but laugh inwardly at the irony that the one man who I absolutely cannot allow myself to want is also the only one who has ever made me feel anything like the fantasy that I locked away as impossible a long time ago.
“Evelyn?” The way he says my name, in that rough, rasping Russian accent, doesn’t make anything any better. But I take a deep breath, and walk towards him, managing a smile that hopefully hides how nervous I really am.
“Reservation for Yashkov,” he says, turning towards the hostess, who nods immediately and reaches for two clothbound menus, gesturing for us to follow her.
The restaurant is beautiful, with dark wood floors and warm, soft lighting, plants bordering the long hall she walks us down before it opens up into a huge floor with a view of the kitchen on one side and floor-to-ceiling glass windows showcasing the glittering skyline of New York City on the other. Soft violin music filters through the air, and the hostess leads us to a corner table with the best view of both the city and the kitchen, waiting as Dimitri slides out my chair for me.
“Your server will be by shortly,” she tells us with a smile, walking quickly away and leaving the two of us there.
“Do you have opinions about wine?” Dimitri asks, sliding out the creamy sheet of thick linen paper that the wine list is printed on.
I shake my head. “Not at a place like this,” I say jokingly, and Dimitri chuckles.
“I’ll order for us both, then. Do you prefer red or white?”
That’s easy to answer, at least. “Red.”
“I do as well.” He scans the list, glancing up at me as we wait. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me here tonight.”
“You insisted on getting to know each other better.” I reach for the cloth napkin, shaking it out and folding it on my lap for something to do with my hands. “I don’t see the point. I’m sure you have a huge house, and I’m sure we’ll be able to avoid each other quite easily, after the business part is done.”
“Is that what you want?” Dimitri looks at me curiously. “To avoid me?”
“I assumed you’d want the same. This isn’t a real marriage. You’ll have—other diversions, I’m sure.” My chest tightens again, that burn of jealousy heating behind my ribs, and I do my best to ignore it. Pointless, I remind myself, but sitting across from him, looking at his handsome face and charming, rakish smile, it’s even harder to pretend that I don’t hate the idea of some other woman sitting where I am. And I hate that, too, because it makes me feel utterly idiotic. Only a fool would be jealous over a man who she’s not even in a real relationship with.
Dimitri looks at me evenly. “For as long as we’re married,” he says calmly, “there will be no diversions , as you so politely put it.”
I blink at him, sure that we’re talking about two different things. “What?”
“I won’t be seeing other women while we’re married,” he clarifies. “If that’s what you’re referring to.”
I swallow hard, momentarily saved from digging deeper by the server’s arrival. Dimitri rattles off a wine with a French name that I couldn’t possibly begin to pronounce, and glances back at the menu.
“The golden caviar as well,” he says, contemplating the list of appetizers. “And the snapper and sea-urchin appetizer medley.”
My eyebrows go up. “Sea urchin?”
“It’s delicious,” he promises me. “You’ll love it. And the caviar, if you’re brave enough to try it.”
For some reason, that needles me a bit, and I think he knows it. I think he’s doing it on purpose, and I shrug. “If I can face down a gang member in my shop, I think I can handle fish eggs.”
“There’s the spirit.” Dimitri chuckles. “Now. What were we talking about?”
The look on his face says he knows damn well what we were talking about, and my cheeks heat. “We were talking about your…diversions, after the wedding.”
His mouth twitches. “Well, since you seem determined to talk about my bedroom habits with the propriety of a Victorian widow, I’ll lay it out very plainly for you, Evelyn. I have no intentions of dating, being seen with, or having sex with any other woman while we’re married. Is that clear enough?”
“But—” I stare at him, completely perplexed. “I meant what I said. About us not sleeping together.”
“I’m sure you did.” Dimitri pauses as the server returns with our bottle of wine. He seems entirely at ease as the server passes him the cork, then pours him a taste. Dimitri sips it, nods, and waits as both of our glasses are filled, the remainder set on the table as the server sets a silver tray with our appetizers in between us.
“Try the wine,” he suggests, taking another sip of his. As if we’re discussing the weather and not the fact that he just suggested to me that he plans to be celibate for the entirety of our marriage. Unless…
I remember what Dahlia warned me about, that men like him think they can always have whatever they want. I stare at the tray between us, at the small dish of caviar and the thin crackers, the slivers of fish interspersed with marinated peppers and pickled radish, and I wonder if this is all just a trap. A way for him to lock me into a situation that I can’t get out of.
Reaching for my wine glass, I take a sip. It’s delicious, rich and dry, and I savor it for a moment before setting the glass back down, meeting Dimitri’s gaze as evenly as I can.
“I meant it,” I repeat. “And if you think I’m going to marry you and then change my mind, or if this is some trap and you plan to force me?—”
Dimitri’s gaze darkens, startling me into silence with the sudden anger that I see flash over his face. “I’ve never forced a woman,” he says flatly, his voice low and harsh. “There’s a lot of things that I’ve done, as my father’s heir, that are questionably immoral. But never that. If you won’t come to my bed, Evelyn, then that will be the end of it. Though,” he adds, with the smallest hint of humor returning to his expression, “I can’t promise that I won’t try to entice you. And I won’t tell you no, if you change your mind.”
That makes me catch my breath, my hand freezing around my wine glass. The desire in his voice is evident, and it startles me, because no one has ever wanted me the way he seems to. I’ve encountered lust in men, but never like this. This feels somehow different—less crass than the men I’ve known, less objectifying, even though Dimitri is undoubtedly looking at me as if he’d take me this instant, if I gave him permission.
He’s looking at me like I’ve seen Dahlia look at pieces of art she covets. Like I’m something priceless. And it’s a thousand times more dangerous than the ordinary lust that I’m used to.
“I still don’t understand,” I say softly. “I’m sure women throw themselves at you. I can’t imagine fidelity is a strongly held virtue in a crime family. So why?”
Dimitri is silent for a moment, taking another sip of his wine before sliding his hand into the inside of his jacket. I watch him, confused, as he slides a small, slightly worn black velvet box across the table towards me.
“Open it,” he says quietly, and I frown.
“Why won’t you just answer my question?”
“I will,” Dimitri says calmly. “Just open it.”
Still frowning, I reach for the box, flipping it open—and my mouth drops open slightly as I see what’s inside.
It’s a ring. An engagement ring, certainly—and I can tell it’s vintage. The center is a large pear-shaped diamond, surrounded by two rows of round halo diamonds, with three baguettes at the very bottom, set in aged yellow gold. It’s utterly gorgeous, and I stare at it, perplexed as I look up at Dimitri.
“What—”
“That’s my mother’s ring,” he says, nodding towards the box. “Given to my father to give to her, by his mother. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Then why are you giving it to me?”
“Because, for whatever length of time it takes for us to get what we both need from this arrangement, you will be my wife, Evelyn. There’s a reason I wanted out of the engagement that I was meant to agree to.” His gaze falls on the ring again, and then flicks back up to meet mine. “She would have hated my mother’s ring. She wouldn’t have appreciated what it meant to wear it. But I think, even though this isn’t real, that you will. And she wouldn’t have cared if I ran through a hundred women’s beds during our marriage. But I think, despite the fact that you’re sitting there insisting I should be able to, you do care.”
“I don’t?—”
Dimitri continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And I care. You’re right that finding a woman to spend a night with is no difficulty for me, Evelyn. I’ve spent plenty of nights with plenty of beautiful women. But if I’m going to be married, I have no desire to humiliate my wife by even allowing the chance that I’ll be seen with someone else. I have no desire to be known as just another Bratva heir who does as he pleases when it comes to his bed. And I have no interest in hiding who I’m with, and what I’m doing.”
I swallow hard. I can feel my pulse in my throat, feel the heat flooding through me. Why is he like this? It would be so much easier to stick to the letter of our agreement if he were cruel, if he were casually unfaithful, if he were cold. But he’s none of those things. He’s a walking temptation, the kind of man I never thought actually existed, and I need, above all, to keep my walls up around him. If I falter for even a moment, I know, I could lose myself.
“There’s no telling how long we’ll be married,” I whisper. “You said it’s until your father passes. What if—” The words trail off, because it’s hitting me as I say it that we really could be married for years. I could have to hold this man at arm’s length for a very long time, and that anxiety worms its way through me again, my pulse suddenly racing for a very different reason.
“I understand,” Dimitri says calmly. “That changes nothing. Marriage means something to me, Evelyn, even if it’s only a matter of keeping my word. The fact that this is a business deal doesn’t change that. I keep my word in business, too. And I wanted out of my arrangement because I didn’t want her in my bed, and I couldn’t see a lifetime where my only options were that, or to be unfaithful.”
He reaches out, sliding the ring out of the velvet box, and he holds it out to me. “It’s business, Evelyn. But my word still means something to me, regardless.”
My heart is beating so hard it hurts. On the surface, I know, I should be glad that he’s saying these things. If he really is sincere—and fuck, if he isn’t, he should get an award for his acting—then that means I truly have nothing to fear from this arrangement. That he’ll keep his promises to me, that he’ll do everything he’s said. Restore my shop, protect me, and most importantly—let me go when this is all over.
“This isn’t necessary,” I whisper, looking at the ring. This feels monumental. It feels like stepping onto a rickety bridge over a deep chasm, one that will swallow me whole if I put even one foot wrong. And yet, Dimitri doesn’t falter.
“It is,” he says firmly. “This needs to appear to be real, in every sense, Evelyn. This Friday night, there’s a gala I’m expected to attend, the next in a long line of holiday dinners and events I need to show my face at. And I need you, as my new fiancee, to be on my arm for that. The marriage can be whatever we want it to be in private, but in public, it has to be real. And this is a part of that.”
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I nod. I reach out, taking the ring from his fingers, and slide it onto my left hand. It fits, and I swallow hard, trying not to feel that that means something. That I’ve just shackled myself to a dangerous future.
“What about the threat from the Crows?” I whisper. “You haven’t said anything about?—”
“Everything will be fine,” Dimitri promises. “You’re under my protection now, Evelyn. I have the contract here for you to sign, over dessert, if you like. And this weekend, when you appear in public on my arm, gossip will spread. You’re safe now, I promise you that.
I nod weakly, reaching for my wine glass. The ring sparkles brilliantly in the low light of the room, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. It’s beautiful, the most gorgeous piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen, and even I can see that it suits me. It’s a work of art, and it’s exactly the sort of style that I would choose, if I were picking out a ring for myself.
But it shouldn’t be on my finger. It’s something personal, something meaningful , and it shouldn’t belong to me.
Just as I can’t ever, ever truly belong to him.