Evelyn Todd Novels & Stories

Ethan was chatting with some political figures, so Sophia stayed behind in the lounge area. "Mrs. Blackwood." A gentle and clear voice sounded from behind her. Sophia turned around, surprised to see who it was. Evelyn approached her with graceful steps. "Hello, I'm Evelyn, the founding director of Vera Perla Jewelry." "The sunflower brooch you just bought was designed by me. I'm glad you like it." Her smile was subtle, her tone soft yet clear.

The water brought immediate relief to her body, soothing away the aches she had acquired from sleeping on the hard ground at the square. Evelyn got out of the shower when she was done and entered Tara's room. “Here, wear this, it will look good on you,” Tara suggested, offering Evelyn a chic black strapless gown adorned with glistening crystal pearls. “Oh no, please this will be too much,” Evelyn said, rejecting the dress. “No, it's not. It is my gift to you, please do not reject it. It will really look good on you,” Tara said, pushing the cloth into Evelyn's hand.

My assistant, Sarah, knocked on the door around eleven. “Evie? There’s a call on line two. It’s from the Senate mansion. They asked for you personally.” I raised an eyebrow. “Put them through.” I picked up the phone. “This is Evelyn. Founder and CEO of Aurora event agency, the world’s premier luxury event management company.”

“Of course. I’ll finalize the seating. I placed her at the main table, of course.” --- Evelyn spent the afternoon at her studio preparing for the gala. She chose a sleek black off-shoulder gown that hugged her curves before flowing elegantly to the floor. It was sophisticated, sexy in a subtle way – something the old Evelyn might have worn to impress Khalid. Tonight, she wore it for herself. Temi video-called while Evelyn applied her makeup. “Damn, you look lethal. You going to that Voss thing?” “Yes,” Evelyn said, fastening diamond studs Khalid had given her years ago. “But I’m not staying long. I have an early site meeting tomorrow.”

The penthouse suite on the top floor of the Grand Palais overlooked the glittering lights of Manhattan. At 68, Evelyn Hargrove was still a stunning woman , surgically enhanced but tastefully so, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a body that turned heads even in her late sixties. Her silver hair was cut in a sleek bob, and she wore a silk robe the color of champagne that barely contained her enhanced breasts and still-toned hips. She had buried two husbands and outlived most of her lovers. Tonight, she wanted something new.

Bella replied. The front doors swung open. Evelyn Blackwood didn't enter so much as she occupied the space. Even at seventy, she carried an aura of absolute, unshakeable authority. She was dressed in a navy suit that cost more than most people’s annual salaries, her white hair swept back in a style that hadn't changed in thirty years. Behind her, two assistants carried several pieces of luggage. "Dante," Evelyn said, her voice like velvet-covered steel. She offered her cheek for a dry, perfunctory kiss. "You look tired. Leadership doesn't seem to be agreeing with your health."

And so, early in the morning, the Hudson women made their way to Pure Essence Spa. Lovett took a well-deserved day off work, just like the others. There was First Madam, Evelyn Hudson—Old Madam’s youngest child and only daughter. Second Madam, Odessa Hudson, wife to Evan Hudson, her first son. And Third Madam, Margaret Hudson, wife to her second son, Julian Hudson. Evan and Odessa had two daughters, but both were already married and now part of their husbands’ families, so they didn’t attend the spa day.

Larissa's POV The women Tiffany introduced me to were all variations of well-dressed and well-off. Shauna, who did something with nutrition and also held the title of vice president at the country club where all the women frequented. Evelyn, who used to be a runway model and was now the owner of a luxury makeup and skincare line that sold exclusively in high-end boutiques. Claudine, whose family owned the champagne we would be drinking this afternoon: apparently this batch was infused with gold flakes.

Each of them carried a resemblance to her, as though she were staring at generations of herself. Her fingers trembled as she reached for one frame, brushing the dust from its surface. The plaque beneath the portrait read Lady Evelyn Blackwood, 1823–1846. She turned to the next, reading Isabelle Blackwood, 1865–1887. Name after name, date after date, all too short, all ending with years that spoke of early deaths.

“Hmmm.” “Miss,” Moreau’s assistant, Alice, addressed Evelyn softly, “I’ll take your jacket, your hat and your purse to the dressing room. If you’ll remove your shoes, Madame will need you on the hemming platform to get your measurements, please.” Reluctantly, Evelyn relinquished her hat and purse, handing them over to the awaiting Alice, then unbuttoned her jacket and removing it, bent to remove her shoes. Beyond her assistant, Madame Moreau paced back and forth, never taking her eyes off Evelyn, and quietly tsk-tsking to herself or heaving dramatic impatient sighs.