Night had fallen over New York City, transforming the grey grime into a glittering web of lights. The Meatpacking District was pulsing with life. The bass from the clubs vibrated through the cobblestone streets.
Outside The Gilded Lily, a crowd pressed against the velvet ropes. People were begging the bouncers, dropping names, flashing cash.
A black town car pulled up to the curb. The crowd parted.
The door opened. A pair of stiletto heels hit the pavement.
Evelyn stepped out.
The emerald green dress shimmered under the streetlights. The plunging back exposed her spine, a graceful line of pale skin. Her new haircut swung sharply as she turned. Her lips were painted a defiant red.
Sophie scrambled out after her, grinning. You look like a movie star who just killed her husband and got away with it.
Evelyn smirked. The night is young.
They walked straight to the front. The head of security looked at his clipboard. He didn't recognize her face, but the reservation under the name "Oracle" commanded respect.
Right this way, Miss.
They were led past the sweating bodies on the dance floor, up a spiral staircase to the VVIP balcony. It was a glass-enclosed birdcage overlooking the chaos below.
Evelyn sat on the velvet banquette. She crossed her legs, the slit of her dress riding up high on her thigh.
A magnum of vintage champagne arrived with sparklers flaring.
Evelyn didn't look at it. She looked at the manager.
Send over your best hosts, she said. I want conversation. And make sure they are tall.
Sophie leaned in, whispering, Alex is going to have a stroke if he finds out.
Evelyn took a sip of champagne. It bubbled on her tongue. He is probably at the hospital holding Scarlett's hand. He won't know.
Five minutes later, eight men in tuxedos arrived. They were the club's "atmosphere models"-men paid to be charming, handsome, and attentive. They surrounded the booth like a wall of expensive cologne.
One of them, a man with piercing blue eyes, sat next to Evelyn. He lit a cigarette for her. She didn't smoke, but she held it between her fingers, watching the smoke curl into the air.
Downstairs, the energy shifted. The crowd at the entrance parted like the Red Sea.
Alexander Vance marched in.
He was still in his suit from the office, though the tie was gone. He looked like a thundercloud. Behind him trailed Brandon Maxwell, his college friend and lawyer, looking amused.
Alexander's eyes scanned the club with predatory intensity. He had come here to blow off steam, to forget the disastrous morning.
He looked up.
He saw the VVIP balcony.
He saw the green dress. He saw the bare back.
He saw a man leaning close to a woman's ear, whispering something that made her throw her head back and laugh. The woman's profile was sharp, her hair short and chic.
At first, he didn't recognize her. He thought she was just another beautiful socialite.
Then, the woman turned slightly. The light hit her glasses-no, she wasn't wearing glasses. But the curve of her cheekbone...
Evelyn?
The name fell from his lips like a curse.
A surge of heat exploded in Alexander's chest. It was violent and unfamiliar. He told himself it was anger at her recklessness. Anger at the embarrassment she was causing the Vance name.
But as he watched the man's hand rest near the woman's bare shoulder, the anger tasted like acid. It tasted like jealousy.
He stormed up the stairs, brushing past the security guard who tried to stop him.
Mr. Vance, you can't-
Move, Alexander snarled.
He kicked the velvet rope aside and stepped onto the balcony.
The music seemed to fade into the background.
Evelyn saw him. She didn't jump. She didn't look guilty. She took a slow drag from the unlit cigarette and exhaled nothing but air.
Get out, Alexander commanded. He wasn't looking at Evelyn. He was looking at the men.
The hosts looked at each other, then at Evelyn.
Evelyn smiled lazily. She nodded. Give us a moment, boys.
The men filed out, sensing the violence in the air. It was just Evelyn, Sophie, Alexander, and Brandon.
Alexander stood over the table. His eyes raked over her. The short hair. The red lips. The dress that revealed more skin than he had seen in three years of marriage.
You're practically naked, he said. His voice was tight.
Evelyn swirled her champagne glass. I'm dressed for the occasion. And you are interrupting my evening.
We are going home, Alexander said. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, possessive.
Evelyn looked at his hand on her skin. Then she looked up at his face.
I am not going anywhere with you, Alexander. I have my own ride.
She yanked her hand back. The movement was sharp.
Alexander's hand remained in the air, empty. He stared at her, and for the first time, he realized he didn't know the woman sitting in front of him at all.
Who paid for this? Alexander demanded, gesturing to the champagne. You didn't use my card.
Evelyn laughed softly. Is that what bothers you? That I can survive without your allowance?
It bothers me that my wife is acting like a...
Careful, Evelyn cut him off, her eyes flashing. You don't want to finish that sentence.
