The café at the foot of Lexington and 58th Street buzzed with chatter and clinking spoons, but Evelyn hardly noticed. Her phone sat untouched beside her half-drunk cappuccino. Instead, she was staring out the window, watching the world pass with the strange sense that her own had slowed to a crawl.
She was still trying to process what had happened.
That man—Julian Blackwell—had given her his card. Not just any card. A thick, matte black one with his name embossed in sharp, silver foil. Minimal. Powerful. The kind of card you kept even if you never intended to call.
Except she had called. Or, rather, she had emailed his assistant.
And now she had an interview. Tomorrow morning.
"Jesus," she whispered to herself, drawing a sharp glance from a college student nearby. She gave an apologetic smile and turned back to her window, heart still not settling.
It wasn't just that he was handsome—though he was, in the way of storm clouds and ocean tides. It was the way he'd looked at her. As if he were trying to see beyond her face. Beyond her words. As if he already knew something about her she didn't know herself.
Maybe it was just the shock. The bookstore. The yelling. The way he'd stepped between her and that man without hesitation. She should be grateful. And wary. And... more grounded than this.
She stood, grabbing her coat. The chill of February bit through the cracks in the city's armor. Her boots tapped quickly against the sidewalk as she headed home.
By the time Evelyn reached her apartment—fourth-floor walk-up, one creaky window, and walls too thin to keep secrets—her mind had turned in a hundred directions.
She opened her closet. Stared.
Nothing felt right.
Most of her clothes were secondhand. Vintage, yes, but not the stylish kind. More the "this was five dollars and I needed something black" kind. She grabbed a deep navy dress she'd worn once to her cousin's engagement party, held it up, frowned, then tossed it on the bed.
She wasn't going to wear something flashy. That wasn't her. But she wasn't going to walk into Julian Blackwell's office looking like she still sorted used books in a cardigan covered in dust and ink, either.
The mirror caught her gaze. Her reflection stared back—long dark waves slightly mussed, lips pale, eyes too wide.
"You can do this," she told the girl in the mirror. Then repeated it. And again. Until her voice didn't shake.
The building was more fortress than office. Sharp lines. Black glass. A monolith against the soft gray sky.
She'd never been anywhere like it.
The lobby alone was the size of a department store, every corner gleaming. The woman at the reception desk barely glanced up as Evelyn approached, already typing something into the screen before Evelyn even spoke.
"You're Ms. Hale, correct? You're expected."
Expected. The word felt foreign.
She was handed a temporary ID badge and directed to the thirty-ninth floor. The elevator ride was silent, except for the whisper of air and the soft pulse of her own heart in her ears.
When the doors opened, she was greeted by a woman in tailored gray—young, efficient, with an expression that said she'd be anywhere else if it didn't mean a demotion.
"Mr. Blackwell is in a meeting. You'll wait in his office."
"Of course," Evelyn said, though her voice barely made it out.
She followed the assistant through glass corridors. Everywhere she looked, everything was polished and cold. It wasn't until they opened the heavy black door to his office that something changed.
Warm wood tones. A large window with a skyline view. Bookshelves. Real ones. Shelves and shelves of books—first editions, some ancient, some glossy, all intentional.
"He reads," she murmured before she could stop herself.
The assistant gave her a look that might've been amusement—or condescension—and then left her alone.
Evelyn walked slowly to the nearest shelf, running her fingers along the spines. Nabokov. Morrison. Baldwin. Austen. Then something that caught her eye—an old, leather-bound volume with no title.
She touched it.
"You're drawn to the ghosts," came a voice behind her.
She turned sharply.
Julian stood in the doorway, coat off, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked different in daylight—less shadow, more steel.
"Excuse me?" she said, blinking.
"The unlabeled books. They tend to hold the heaviest stories."
He walked past her, casually, like this was a conversation they'd been having for years.
Evelyn didn't move.
He stopped at the window, hands in his pockets. "Most people wait on the couch."
She flushed. "Sorry. I just... the books—"
"It's fine," he said, turning to her now. "I like people who are curious."
That shouldn't have sounded intimate. But it did.
"Do you know why I asked you here?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He watched her. A pause stretched between them.
"Because you didn't flinch."
Evelyn frowned. "When that man yelled?"
"You didn't shrink. You didn't cry. You didn't try to explain yourself. You stood your ground." He walked toward his desk and sat, gesturing for her to do the same.
She obeyed, every muscle stiff.
"I'm looking for someone to fill a position," he continued. "Personal assistant. Not just scheduling and email. Travel. Discretion. Handling things that can't go through official channels. You'd be well-compensated. And protected."
Protected. The word struck her. As if working for him came with inherent danger.
"Why me?" she asked softly.
"You're the kind of person who's overlooked until it's too late," he said simply. "And I value that."
Her breath caught in her throat.
He slid a folder across the desk. "The details. Salary, benefits, nondisclosure agreement."
She picked it up, hands trembling slightly.
"There's a car waiting outside. Take the day. Read it. Think. If you accept, you start tomorrow."
Just like that.
Evelyn rose, folder in hand. "Thank you," she said, not trusting herself to say more.
He didn't respond.
As she stepped into the elevator again, the doors closing with a hush, she glanced down at the folder.
There, tucked just beneath the contract, was a note.
In his handwriting.
"You're either in control—or you're being controlled. Choose carefully." —J.B.
The apartment looked smaller that night. Too familiar. Too fragile.
Evelyn sat on the edge of her bed, folder open, fingers pressing into her temples.
The offer was unreal. More money than she'd ever seen. A list of responsibilities that ranged from basic to deeply personal. She'd have to travel. Be on call at strange hours. Maintain absolute confidentiality.
And yet... it didn't feel like a job offer. It felt like an invitation to something else. Something she couldn't name.
She remembered his eyes. The way he said "protected." And that note. That strange, unprovoked warning.
Was he trying to help her—or test her?
The next morning, she was in the car.
She hadn't told anyone. Not her sister. Not her friends. She didn't even know if she was doing the right thing. Only that she couldn't stop thinking about him.
The driver didn't speak. Just opened the door when they arrived.
This time, she was taken to a different floor. Private. No assistants. Just a long hallway ending in double doors.
The woman who opened them wasn't part of the staff.
She was elegant. Red lips. Sleek bun. Tailored coat with gloves that looked like they cost more than Evelyn's rent.
"Ah," she said, smiling faintly. "So you're the new one."
Evelyn froze.
"I'm sorry, who—?"
"I'm Juliet Blackwell," the woman said, removing one glove slowly. "The first Mrs. Blackwell."
The room behind her smelled like roses and something darker.
"I've been waiting to meet you."