Evelyn Evans Novels & Stories

She’s still in there. Across the estate, in the sun-drenched solarium, Helena Mordrake sat with a crystal glass of sherry. The news had reached her ten minutes ago via an encrypted dispatch. Evelyn was dead. A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smirk spread across Helena’s face. She didn't mourn her sister-in-law. To Helena, Evelyn had been a messy reminder of a past that refused to stay buried. Evelyn’s exile weeks ago had been a necessity; her death was a gift.

Eve turned to Allan at the same time as Allan turned to her they smiled at each other. Allan took a sure step and then greeted, "Hello Mr Wilson, Mrs Wilson. Happy Anniversary of your marriage. This is my wife Evelyn Adams Watson. Darling, say hello to them dear." Allan exclaimed very softly and sounded romantic. "Hello, Mr and Mrs Wilson, happy wedding anniversary and Happy Birthday to you Mrs Wilson. Introduce me Evelyn, wife of Allan Watson." Eve offered her hand in polite greeting and kissed Mrs Wilson on the cheek who still looked beautiful at her age, but still looked very beautiful.

It was a plan with many plot holes, and she was almost certain she wouldn't be able to get away with it scot-free, but this might be her only chance to see that person again. She got off the bed and cleaned up. Evelyn wore a dress similar to the one from yesterday. It was yellow, with flower prints, and fell just above her kneecap. Her long blond hair, which she usually always kept in a bun or ponytail, was allowed to flow down her back.

For starters, Evelyn hated amusement parks, whereas this photo seemed to be taken in one. My Evelyn was the definition of refinement, elegance, and had a commanding presence as the daughter of an aristocrat. However, the woman in this picture appeared carefree, bubbly, and... fun. Could it be that Evelyn had a twin sister, and this Sheila was her long-lost twin? Later, James called me and sent a file containing Sheila's bio-data. “Sheila Grayson, 24 years old, worked at Ritz Breakfast Cafe, illegitimate daughter of Mr. Stevenson Grayson,” I read aloud, skipping over some unnecessary details.

“Enzo was supposed to come bail you out, but he got an emergency, he kept calling Loyd, but Loyd left his phone in the house and I managed to pick Enzo's call and I volunteered to help”. Evelyn blurted out. Evelyn was an average height lady, has light-brown eyes and a pale skin. She was young for someone who had given birth to her child Brittany before she even married Megan's father. What angered Megan the most was that her dad married Evelyn barely after two months of her mother's death.

“How’s Grandma Evelyn?” The doctor spoke, his voice calm but tinged with concern. “Evelyn has regained consciousness, which is a positive step forward. However, due to the nature of her recovery, she is currently unable to speak. For now, she can only communicate through hand squeezes or simple movements of her fingers and toes.”

Damien pov The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Montgomery estate, casting a golden hue over the manicured gardens. I stood on the balcony, my gaze fixed on the figure below. Evelyn was in the garden, her hands gently tending to the roses, her movements deliberate yet distant. I watched as she paused, her shoulders slumping slightly, a silent sigh escaping her lips. The weight of recent events was evident in her posture. The anonymous notes, the public scrutiny, and the complexities of our arrangement were taking a toll on her.

She said and gave Evelyn a sweet smile. Evelyn Forrester. Her ex-best friend from high school who randomly decided one day that Elizabeth would be her rival in everything. Elizabeth was still not sure how they became friends, as they have nothing in common except being heirs from affluent households. Where Elizabeth loved fashion and was hardworking and independent, Evelyn was just a socialite who lived off her parent’s wealth.

“We have plans. But you two go. Celebrate.” Serena looked relieved. “Are you sure?” “Positive. Go be eighteen.” Before we left, I went to the restroom. On my way back, I passed a woman standing in front of Serena’s sculpture. She wasn’t a parent. She was older, dressed in severe Issey Miyake pleats, holding a notepad. I recognized her. Evelyn Vance. One of the toughest critics for The New York Times. I froze. If she hated it… if she wrote something scathing… it would crush Serena.

Her face twists with something ugly. "Well, well, well." Evelyn's voice cuts through the noise. She walks toward Eva with Daniel trailing behind her. "Look who decided to show up. I didn't think you'd have the guts." Eva smiles. Cool. Calm. Collected. "Hello, Evelyn." Her voice is smooth as glass. "I see you're still wearing that dress. The one that makes you look like a cheap hooker. Bold choice." Someone gasps. Someone laughs. Evelyn's face goes red. "You think you're so special? Walking in here with your rich husband. We all know how you got him."