Novels by Evermore

The collective intake of breath across the grand ballroom sounded like a sudden wind sweeping through paper. The auctioneer stood frozen at the podium, his mouth opened wide, his wooden gavel hovering two inches above the sound block. The overhead floodlights reflected off the sweat glistening on his forehead as he stared down at the front VIP table. "Ten... ten million dollars?" the auctioneer choked out into his microphone, his voice cracking slightly on the second word. Beside him, the foundation director nearly dropped his leather ledger. Flashbulbs erupted in a blinding, chaotic wave from the media gallery along the east wall. The shutter clicks sounded like a frantic mechanical swarm as reporters scrambled over velvet ropes to get a clear angle of Julian Vance. Dominic Cross’s smirk vanished entirely. The color drained from his face, leaving his sharp jawline looking carved from grey chalk. His bidding paddle remained suspended in his right hand, suddenly feeling useless and

Julian stared at the broken glass at his feet for a long, silent beat. His throat moved in a hard swallow before he slowly raised his head, his dark eyes tracing the razor-sharp gold line of her neck down to the open back of her dress. He didn't mention the champagne. He didn't ask where she had gotten the fabric. "Clean that up," Julian said roughly to Mrs. Gable, his voice low and tight. He stepped over the wet floorboards, grabbed his coat from the rack, and held the front door open for Evelyn without meeting her gaze. "The Maybach is waiting." An hour later, the grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum was packed to capacity. Dozens of high-society figures, board members, and corporate investors moved under the towering arched ceilings, their laughter mingling with the soft strumming of a live string quartet. Flashbulbs went off continuously near the entrance, where photographers fought for angles along the velvet rope line. Victoria Sterling stood near the main bar in a sle

The heavy fabric shears crunched through the stiff yellow polyester, sending strips of outdated ruffle lining fluttering to the hardwood floor. ​Evelyn didn't hesitate. She sliced straight down the spine, removing the high, suffocating collar completely. Her thumbs were sore from forcing heavy steel needles through thick, double-layered seams, and the skin near her index knuckle was pricked raw from three hours of hand-stitching. ​She sliced away the oil-stained hem, cutting a sharp, architectural slant that stopped three inches above her left knee before sweeping into a short, structured train in the back. ​Using the heavy tailor's chalk, she drafted a deep, plunging V-cut down the back, exposing her shoulder blades entirely. She folded the thick material inward, securing the inner edges with gold safety pins before blind-stitching the borders with dark gold thread. The stiff, awkward fabric that had looked like a drapery disaster now held a rigid, razor-sharp silhouette that hugg

Evelyn’s back remained pressed against the cool leather of the car door long after Julian pulled away. The rest of the drive to the penthouse had passed in total silence. Julian had staring out his window, his bandaged hand resting on his knee, while Evelyn kept her eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the glass. When the car finally pulled into the underground garage, Julian had stepped out without a word, heading straight to his private study on the main floor. By ten o'clock the following morning, Evelyn was sitting at the glass kitchen island in the penthouse, working her way through a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. Her shoulder muscles were still tight from the night before, and her throat felt dry. Mrs. Gable walked into the kitchen carrying a large, flat cardboard box wrapped in heavy silver foil. The housekeeper didn't look Evelyn in the eye. Ever since Julian’s warning two days ago, Mrs. Gable moved around the apartment like a shadow, keeping her head down and speaking only whe

The privacy glass between the front cabin and the rear passenger suite of the Maybach clicked shut, sealing out the hum of rain on the highway. Inside the dark leather interior, the air smelled sharply of antiseptic ointment, fresh blood, and damp wool. Julian sat on the far right side of the leather bench, his suit jacket off and thrown onto the floorboards. His right hand was wrapped tightly in heavy white gauze, a dark red smudge already seeping through the second layer where two jagged glass shards had sliced into his palm. Marcus had offered to take him to the urgent care clinic off Highway 90, but Julian had snapped out a single word through gritted teeth: Home. Evelyn sat three feet away, pressed up against the left passenger door. Her emerald dress was slightly rumpled at the hip, her knees pulled together, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the illuminated dashboard clock. 10:42 PM. The silence inside the car was thick, heavy, and suffoc

Dominic’s lips lingered against the back of Evelyn’s knuckles for one second too long before he released her hand, straightening his posture with deliberate, unhurried grace. Evelyn pulled her hand back toward her lap, her palm pressing hard against the deep green wool of her dress. The skin where his mouth had touched felt strangely cold under the dining room's overhead chandelier. "You look remarkably like your mother, Evelyn," Dominic said softly, his pale grey eyes sweeping over her features with an easy, terrifying familiarity. "She had the exact same bone structure when she attended the Mid-Atlantic Maritime galas back in 2019." Evelyn’s breath hitched in her throat. She looked at him, her mind frantically scrambling through old memories of corporate banquets from five years ago—black-tie events she had attended as a college senior, back when her father still owned the three largest private container docks on the river. "I don't recall seeing you at those dinners, Mr. Cross,