Chapter 4

Evelyn's POV

Adrian wore a charcoal suit and black tie that made him look older than twenty-six. More serious than the gentle man I remembered. His hair was shorter now. Professionally styled.

But his eyes—those devastating blue eyes that had haunted me for five years—were exactly the same. They looked at me with an intensity that made my chest hurt. Made every wall I'd built in Vorkuta threaten to collapse.

"Evelyn," he said.

Just my name in his voice was enough to break me.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I just stood there, bent halfway into the car. The cold December wind cut through my coat. I stared at the man I'd spent five years trying to forget.

The man I'd never stopped loving, no matter how hard Vorkuta had tried to freeze that feeling out of me.

The man who was now, legally, my stepson.

I stood there like an idiot, half-bent toward the car door, trying to figure out what to call him. Not "Adrian"—that felt too familiar. Not "Mr. Winthrop"—that was absurd. Definitely not "stepson." God, I hated that word.

"You came," I finally managed.

My brain had apparently stopped working. I just kept staring at him.

He didn't answer right away. His gaze moved over me slowly. Taking in every change. I wondered what he saw. The girl who'd left five years ago had been soft. Uncertain. Still learning how to exist in the Winthrop world.

The woman standing here now had been forged in Vorkuta's ice and blood.

I knew my eyes were harder. My reflexes sharper. Everything about me screamed danger now, even when I was trying to look harmless.

"Get in," he said finally. His voice was low and rough. "It's freezing."

I hesitated. Every instinct told me to run. But running would only make things worse.

I slid into the seat beside him. The driver closed the door with a soft click.

The sound felt like a cell door locking.

The interior smelled like leather and Adrian's cologne. Something woodsy and expensive. A scent I'd spent five years trying to forget.

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

The car pulled away from the curb. Through the tinted windows, I watched JFK blur past. Red taillights. White headlights. Everything moving too fast after Vorkuta's silence.

"How was your flight?" Adrian asked.

The question felt absurd. Like we were strangers making small talk.

"Long," I said.

What else could I say? I spent eighteen hours thinking about how to kill a senator while trying not to think about you?

"I didn't expect you to come. I thought there'd just be a driver."

"I wanted to be here." His hand tightened on his knee. Knuckles going white. Then he forced himself to relax. "I know we haven't... I know it's been difficult. But you shouldn't have to come back to this alone."

The careful way he chose his words told me everything. The Adrian I remembered had been warm. Open. Quick to smile.

This version was guarded. Every sentence weighed and measured.

"Thank you," I said. Matching his formal tone even though it felt wrong. "That's thoughtful."

Silence fell between us. Heavy and suffocating.

I kept my gaze on the window. Watching Queens give way to the tunnel. The car felt too small. The space between us both vast and nonexistent at the same time.

I could feel the heat of his body. Barely a foot away.

Every cell in my body screamed at me to either move closer or throw myself out of the moving car.

"You look different," he said quietly.

Something in his voice made me look at him.

His eyes were fixed on me. Intense. Like being pinned under a spotlight.

"Five years is a long time," I said carefully. Keeping my voice neutral. "Everyone changes."

"Not that much." His hand moved like he wanted to reach for me. Then stopped halfway. Dropped back to his knee. "You're thinner. Your hair's longer. But your eyes..."

He trailed off. Shook his head.

I wanted to ask what he'd seen in my eyes. But I already knew.

Vorkuta had left its mark. The way I assessed every person as threat or asset. The way my hands never strayed far from potential weapons. The cold calculation that had replaced whatever softness I'd once had.

"How have you been?" I asked.

Hating how we sounded. Like strangers at a networking event instead of two people who'd once known each other's every thought.

"Busy." He turned to look out his window. "After Father's diagnosis, I had to take over the company. The board wanted continuity. Father wanted everything in order before..."

He stopped. His throat moved when he swallowed.

"Before the end."

The pain in his voice was real. Despite everything—despite the fact that Arthur had sent me away, despite the fact that our marriage had been a transaction—I felt sympathy.

Arthur had been Adrian's father. Grief didn't care about complicated feelings.

"I'm sorry," I said. And meant it. "I know you were close."

"We were." He was quiet for a moment. "He asked about you. Near the end. Wanted to know if you were doing well in Russia. If you'd found your father."

"I didn't look for him. It seemed pointless. A grown daughter he'd never met wouldn't be welcome."

"That's what I told Father." Adrian adjusted his tie. Even though it was already perfect. "He seemed disappointed. I think he wanted you to have closure."

Closure.

As if finding a stranger who'd gotten my mother pregnant would fix everything.