Evelyn's POV
The mansion wasn't completely destroyed.
Just the East Wing. Just Isabelle's memorial room. Just the place where I'd found Marcus in bed with my dead sister.
The fire department called it electrical failure. Damien called it a message.
I called it the beginning of the end.
"You need to get dressed." Damien stood in the doorway of our bedroom—separate bedrooms still, though we'd been sleeping in the same room since the coffee shop incident. He refused to let me out of his sight. "The gala starts in two hours."
"We're still going?" I stared at him. "My father just tried to have me committed. Isabelle burned down part of my childhood home. And you want to go to a charity event?"
"I want to show everyone that you're fine. Stable. Happy." His smile was sharp. "And that touching you means war with me."
He had a point. My father's press conference had made me look insane. We needed to show Manhattan society that I was perfectly sane. Just married to a very dangerous man.
"I don't have anything to wear to a gala."
"Yes, you do." He opened the closet, pulling out a garment bag I'd never seen before. "I had this made for you."
Inside was the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. Midnight blue silk that shimmered like water. Simple but elegant. The kind of dress that didn't scream for attention because it didn't need to.
"It's perfect," I whispered.
"I know." He set it on the bed along with a jewelry box. "Wear your hair down. The diamonds at your throat. And that smile that makes men forget their own names."
"I don't have a smile like that."
"Yes, you do." His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my lips. "You just never used it because Marcus didn't deserve it. I do."
Heat flooded through me. This fake marriage was feeling less fake every day.
"Get ready," he said softly. "Show them who you really are. Not Victor's disappointing daughter. Not Marcus's backup plan. Not Isabelle's replacement." His eyes held mine. "Show them Mrs. Ashford. My wife. My equal. My queen."
My queen. The words made my heart race.
He left me to get dressed. I stared at the mirror as I slipped into the dress, fastened the diamonds, let my hair fall in dark waves around my shoulders.
The woman looking back wasn't the scared girl who'd run from her engagement party. She was someone new. Someone stronger.
Someone who was done being afraid.
The charity gala was at the Plaza—Manhattan's elite dressed in their most expensive everything, pretending to care about whatever cause was fashionable this month.
Damien's hand stayed firm on my back as we entered. Conversations stopped. People turned. Stared.
I lifted my chin. Smiled. Let them look.
"That's my girl," Damien murmured. "Let them see what I see."
We moved through the crowd like royalty. People congratulated us on our marriage—false smiles hiding their curiosity and judgment. I could see the questions in their eyes: Why did the Ice King marry Victor Whitmore's crazy daughter?
Let them wonder.
"Evelyn." A familiar voice made me freeze.
I turned.
Marcus stood behind us, looking polished and smug in his tuxedo. And beside him, wearing white like a virgin bride, was Isabelle.
Up close, she looked almost right. Almost human. But her eyes were still wrong. Still empty. Like someone had forgotten to install the soul.
"Marcus." My voice was ice. "Isabelle."
"Sister." Isabelle's smile didn't reach those dead eyes. "You look well. Marriage agrees with you."
"More than death agrees with you."
Her smile faltered. Just for a second. Just enough to show something underneath—fear? Confusion? Rage?
"We should talk," Marcus said, reaching for my arm. "Privately. Clear the air."
Damien's hand shot out, catching Marcus's wrist before he could touch me. His grip looked gentle. But Marcus winced.
"My wife," Damien said softly, "has nothing to say to you."
"She'll come crawling back." Marcus tried pulling free. Couldn't. "When this fake marriage falls apart, she'll realize what she lost."
Damien's smile was beautiful and terrifying. "Let me be very clear. Touch my wife again, and I'll destroy you. Not your reputation. Not your career. You." He released Marcus's wrist. "I'll take everything you love and burn it to ash. Starting with whatever deal you made with Victor Whitmore."
Marcus's face went white. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Damien's arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close. "You're complicit in attempted murder. Conspiracy to commit fraud. Illegal medical experimentation. Should I continue?"
"You can't prove anything."
"Can't I?" Damien's smile widened. "I've spent seven years gathering evidence. Every payment. Every secret. Every body." His eyes flicked to Isabelle. "Every impossible resurrection."
Isabelle's face went blank. Completely blank. Like someone had unplugged her.
"Belle?" Marcus grabbed her arm. "Belle, what's wrong?"
She didn't respond. Just stood there, frozen, staring at nothing.
"She's glitching," I whispered.
"Not here." Damien steered me away. "Let them deal with their malfunction."
We moved through the crowd. Behind us, I heard Marcus calling for a doctor. Heard people whispering. Heard someone say "Is she having a seizure?"
Good. Let them see. Let them question. Let the cracks start showing.
We reached the balcony—cool air, Manhattan lights, blessed quiet.
"That was risky," I said. "Threatening him publicly."
"That was necessary." Damien's hands framed my face. "Everyone needed to see that you're protected. That touching you has consequences."
"What if he tells my father?"
"He will tell your father. That's the point." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "We're forcing their hand. Making them act rashly. Panicked people make mistakes."
"Mistakes that could get us killed."
"Then we'll kill them first." He said it so casually. Like murder was just another business transaction.
Maybe for him, it was.
"Damien—"
My phone buzzed. Sophia's name flashed on screen.
I answered. "Sophie?"
"Ev." Her voice was shaking. "You need to see this. I found something. Something huge."
"What?"
"Not over the phone. Meet me at my apartment. Now. And bring Damien." A pause. "I found proof. Real proof. About what your father's doing. And Ev—" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "—it's worse than we thought. So much worse."
The line went dead.
Damien's phone rang immediately. James.
He answered. Listened. His face went hard.
"We need to leave," he said. "Now."
"What's wrong?"
"Your father just filed an emergency injunction. He's claiming you're mentally unfit to control your inheritance." His jaw clenched. "The hearing is tomorrow morning. If he wins, you lose everything."
My heart stopped. "Can he do that?"
"He's Victor Whitmore. He can do anything." Damien grabbed my hand. "But so can I. Come on. We have work to do."
We headed for the exit. Behind us, I heard screaming.
I turned.
Isabelle stood on the balcony railing. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly still.
"I remember now," she said in that flat, wrong voice. "I remember everything."
Then she smiled.
And jumped.