Good morning, beautiful.

A text from Yusuf lit up the black screen on her phone, momentarily drawing Evie's attention away from the pillow she was staring at with a mixture of trepidation and befuddlement.

Was she imagining the scent? It was so faint. Was it really just some strange mixture of her own shampoo, the fading flowers in the vase on her nightstand, and fabric softener?

She took a deep, slow breath in, closing her eyes a moment. When she breathed out, she tapped Yusuf's message to open a text window.

I'm more than just my looks, you know.

Three dots danced beneath her reply and then his response appeared.

I know, but 'good morning, talented' just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Evie smiled, then threw the offending pillow off her lap and got out of bed. Today was her big day, and she couldn't afford to waste time ruminating over Walter De Ville's cologne. She had a date for a celebratory brunch with Grace and then they had appointments for a mani/pedi (Trey's treat). For Evie, that was less about pampering and more a necessity. With the way she'd been working lately, her nails were a mess, and she didn't think Joanna would appreciate her rubbing elbows and shaking hands with gallery patrons while dried clay bits decorated her nailbeds.

Smiling, she tapped out a quick message. Good morning to you, too. See you tonight?

Wouldn't miss it, Yusuf assured her.

Evie dressed quickly in a silk blouse and long, flowy skirt, making a headband out of a red and pink scarf to keep her hair out of her eyes. She slipped into a pair of low-top Converse sneakers and headed out. Grace met her at the upscale restaurant they'd agreed upon, one of those places she usually walked past wistfully, promising to try "someday."

Someday had finally come.

"And for you?" the waiter asked her after taking her friend's order.

"I'll have the steak and eggs."

"What?" Grace chuckled as though it were a joke.

"Very good, miss. How would you like your steak?"

"Rare."

"What?" Now Grace's tone indicated she felt the joke had gone too far. As the waiter walked away, she stared at Evie. "Who are you, and what have you done with my friend, Miss Evelyn Jackson?"

"It's a celebration. I'm indulging."

"You're a vegetarian. Almost a vegan. Red meat? Are you serious?"

Evie shrugged. "I've heard it's really good here."

"This is Villard. Everything is really good here. Girl, what has gotten into you? I mean, I don't blame you. You know me, I love a good piece of meat, but I don't think I've ever seen you take so much as a bite of a burger in three years."

"I know. It's so weird, but it's like… I just crave it."

"Maybe you're anemic. When's the last time you saw a doctor?"

Evie rolled her eyes. "I'm not anemic."

"Are you chewing ice?"

"I feel fine!" she insisted.

Grace shrugged. "I'll admit it, you look fine. Better than fine. You look fantastic, to a suspicious degree." She lowered her brows. "You gettin' some?"

"Grace!"

"What? I'm just trying to figure out your glow, girl. It's strange. You barely sleep, you're up at all hours doing your thing, then you're hustling around town making all sorts of deals…"

"Two deals…"

"…and you look better than ever."

"Really? That's sweet. Thanks."

"You wanna thank me? Tell me your secret." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Is it Yusuf? You two finally seal the deal?"

Evie rolled her eyes. "There's no deal to seal, Grace."

Grace cocked her head. "Well, that's a damn shame. That boy is fine as hell, and he's into you."

"I know." She sighed. "It's just…"

"It's just what, Evie? It's just that you're still into a six-hundred-year-old vampire?"

"Grace!" she hissed.

"Are you going to deny it?"

"Yes, I'm going to deny it," Evie whispered hotly, "and keep your voice down."

"Evie," Grace shook her head, "no one is eavesdropping on us at breakfast, and even if they were, they would assume we're joking."

"They wouldn't assume we were joking, they'd assume I'm insane, and I'd rather not ruin my reputation when I'm only just earning it."

"Fine, then. I'll rephrase. Is it because you're still in love with that pasty English lord?"

"I was never in love with him…"

"Evie." Her friend shook her head and gave her a look of admonition.

"I wasn't!" she insisted. "And what would it matter, anyway? He's dead. Dust scattered in the wind."

"Oh, and no one ever pined for the one that got away." Grace's tone dripped with skepticism.

"I'm the one who sent him away," she reminded her. "Why would I pine?"

Grace shrugged. "Who can truly understand the vagaries of the human heart?"

"The vagaries of the human heart?" Evie snorted. "Did you change your major to poetry?"

"I can be deep when the situation calls for it, and your… situation," here, Grace fluttered her hand vaguely toward Evie, "definitely calls for it."

Evie took a long swallow of her mimosa before answering. "I don't have a situation. Walter De Ville is dead and gone, I moved on the second I left his smoking ruin of a house behind, and there's no part of me that is holding back because of anything that happened there." Lies. All lies. She was trying hard to believe the words as she said them, but as snippets of her dream from the night before played in her mind, she knew she'd failed miserably to convince either herself or Grace. "Now, can we talk about what's really important? Like what we're wearing to the show tonight?"

Grace laughed, shaking her head, and Evie could read in her expression that she understood the diversion tactic, but like the good friend she was, allowed herself to be led along a different path of conversation. The two women chatted about less contentious topics for the remainder of their brunch. By the end, as they paid the check and left for their nail appointments, a tipsy Grace was on the phone with Trey, insisting they pick up Evie that evening so they could all ride together to the gallery for the show.

"No, I have to be there early," Evie objected. "You two don't want to hang out for an hour before the doors even open."

"Uh, yeah we do," Grace said. "Free champagne? A private preview? Trey and I are all about that VIP treatment." She put her boyfriend on speaker. "Tell her, pookie."

"Pookie?" Evie snorted.

"We'd be happy to pick you up, Evie," Trey agreed as the two women walked arm-in-arm through the doors and onto the sidewalk. "Car service is a perk of my job, and I don't use it nearly enough. Speaking of, look up."

As they did, they saw a town car parked at the curb, windows down and Trey waving to them from the backseat. Evie watched as he got out, slipping his phone into his pocket and sweeping Grace into a tight embrace before kissing her.

"Oh, my goodness, you didn't have to pick us up!" Grace said.

"Couldn't have my girl walking to the salon after two mimosas," the man replied. Behind Grace's back, Evie held up three fingers with a smirk, making Trey laugh and nod at her. "Hello, Evie."

"Trey," she grinned as she slid into the car. "Thanks for the lift."

Once they were on their way, Trey told her he and Grace would be by around six to pick her up. As he dropped them at the salon and took off to pick up his drycleaning, Evie turned to her friend.

"He's a keeper."

"Oh, I know it." Grace eyed Evie. "Yusuf might be too, if you'd give him a chance."

"Well, he'll be there tonight, so it's not like I'm shutting him out." Even as Evie said it, she felt a chill down her back. She'd been enjoying her morning with her best friend, but through the laughter, the girl talk, and even the serious conversation, a part of her had been distracted, looking all around, waiting for it.

For him.

She hadn't glimpsed Walt yet, but experience had taught her that she would. And the longer it took to spot him, the more nervous she became. She dreaded it and anticipated it and hoped for it, all at once.

She tried telling herself the hope was merely because she wished to experience what she knew was coming, survive it, and move past it as quickly as possible. She tried telling herself she longed to see him now because if she did not, there was every chance she would spot him at the show, and it would be a distraction she could not afford. She tried telling herself she needed that glimpse of him, of Walter De Ville, so she could put her anxiety to rest and be at her best as she met the Fincher Gallery's top clients and collectors. She told herself that, but in the deepest part of her heart, in the most hidden space of her mind, she knew that what Grace had said to her earlier was true.

She was still in love with Walt.

Evie inspected herself in the long mirror propped against the wall. The dress was a masterpiece, a full-length gown made up of a literal patchwork of blues, raw edges showing here and there, fitted through the hip but flaring slightly mid-thigh, to allow ease of movement. The neckline was high, but the bodice sported a curving cutout, slightly off-center, nearly from collar bone to navel. It was just scandalous enough without going overboard. Gold chains secured to grommets on each side of the opening prevented any chance of a wardrobe malfunction. Gold strappy spike-heeled sandals completed the look.

She tucked a loose curl back into the messy French twist she'd settled on for her hair and was about to put her earrings in when there was a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock on her wall, she looked surprised.

"You're early," she called, walking toward the door. When she opened it, she was taken aback to be greeted by a total stranger rather than her best friend.

"Evelyn Alexander?" the young man inquired, reading the name off an electronic tablet he gripped in one hand. In his other hand was a navy bag embossed with the gold logo of P. Norton Powell jewelers.

"Oh," she said, brows knitting, "did Phillip send this?"

"Sign here, please." The man turned the tablet to face Evie. "You can just use your finger."

She scrawled her signature, a defiant 'Evie Jackson', and accepted the bag, curious what her mentor had sent. Shutting the door, she set the small bag on a table nearby and reached in, pulling out an envelope. Inside was a card, made of heavy paper, the sort usually reserved for engraved invitations, across which elegant script spelled out a message.

This is your moment, it read. Tonight, you take your place among the stars.

The note wasn't signed, but she supposed the bag with its logo, and the trademark navy velvet box inside it were signature enough.

She pulled the box out and opened the lid, gasping at several gold hair pins inside, each tipped with a unique star shape made of diamonds.

"Oh… wow." Evie hurried to the mirror and began placing the pins along one side of her French twist. When she was done, she barely had time to admire the way the diamonds in her hair caught the light when her phone began playing Grace's ringtone. She tapped the speaker button so she could finish putting on her earrings. "Hiiii," she sang, the greeting chipper and drawn out.

"We're almost there, girl."

"I'm just putting on my earrings. I'll meet you downstairs."

"Okay. See you in five. I cannot wait to see you in that dress."

The gown was made especially for Evie by a mutual friend of hers and Grace's, an up-and-coming street wear designer named Marquise DuBois. He'd decided to try his hand at breaking into the high-end couture market and agreed to outfit Evie at cost for her show opening in exchange for the free press (and a promise from her that she'd talk him up to the Fincher Gallery's more deep-pocketed clientele). She'd had no problem agreeing. His label, Marquee, was edgy enough to appeal to her tastes, and he was a good enough friend that even if it weren't, she'd still support him. Marquise, Grace, and Evie had all worked catering jobs together when they were new to Manhattan, and though they'd found some measure of success and moved beyond those first grueling jobs, they still managed to remain good friends.

Evie grabbed her clutch and a cropped moto jacket in gold leather, throwing it on as she stepped out into the hallway and locked her apartment. She flew down the stairs and stepped out of the door of her building and onto the sidewalk just as Trey and Grace pulled to the curb. The window silently lowered, revealing Grace's grinning face as she snapped pictures of her friend with her phone.

"Evie! Oh my god. Marquise really did you right. You look fierce."

Evie couldn't help but laugh, her heart light as she threw open her jacket and did a little runway spin.

"Fit for fashion week," Trey declared as he got out the car on the other side and rounded the back. He opened the door curbside for her. "Your chariot, mademoiselle."

The trio laughed and joked as they rode to the gallery, but Evie kept her gaze trained out of the window, scanning the sidewalks, crosswalks, and storefronts. She was dreading that glimpse she knew was coming. Dreading it, and praying for it, all at once. But Walt did not appear, and his absence only served to intensify the faint sense of unease that had been building inside of her all day.

The front windows of the gallery were brightly lit as they pulled up, her two largest pieces featured right up front where they could be seen and admired from the sidewalk. Though the front doors were locked, passers-by had stopped to gaze at the off-white vases, each the height of a grade-schooler. Evie couldn't help but blush and bristle with pride at some of the comments she overheard as she moved past the window shoppers to head for the side door of the building, Trey and Grace in her wake.

Joanna greeted her with a quick kiss of each cheek, as was her custom, and welcomed her friends in, indicating they should feel free to grab a glass of bubbly and wander as she and Evie talked strategy.

"The Weinstocks will be here," the director was saying as Grace caught Evie's eye and saluted her from across the room with her champagne flute, "and they are known to spend big when they feel a connection with the artist. They have a daughter your age, which in and of itself might be enough, but they're also close with Phillip, so I'll have him introduce you."

"Phillip," Evie repeated, her tone thoughtful. She reached back and touched the pins in her hair briefly, smiling, but something seemed to squirm in the back of her head, making her feel uneasy. Her smile died.

Don't be stupid, she told herself, forcing herself to brighten when Joanna raised an eyebrow at her change in demeanor. It was just a dream. He doesn't actually have a connection to the Alexanders. And even if he does, so what?

Still, the unease sat with her as the director rattled off a list of other Fincher clients who were likely to purchase if given proper incentive. She learned who wanted to be flattered, who wanted to be inspired, who responded to light flirting and who only responded to discussion of process.

"Edgar Howard, you know, that obscenely rich financier who thinks he's twenty years younger than he is, will have opinions. From the age of his current mistress, you'd think he hates being challenged, but nothing could be further from the truth. He'll want to go toe-to-toe with you. He only buys artists who hold their own."

"Interesting. It sounds like he doesn't care about the pieces. Why would someone fill their home with art that doesn't interest them?"

"My job is to make sales, Evie, not question a buyer's motivations. Besides, what's to say the art doesn't interest him? I'd wager he looks at those pieces and congratulates himself on how clever he is. Maybe that's not what the artists intended, but once you put your work into the world, you lose the right to its interpretation or function."

"I suppose that's true."

"Don't talk about what comes next," Joanna warned. "Save it for later. We don't want anyone thinking they should wait for something better. Let's keep their focus on this show and let it sell out. If someone tries to commission you, it's fine to let them know you're open to it, but that you can't put your energy there until this show closes."

Evie laughed. "I never realized…"

"Realized what, hon?"

"What a game this all is." She shrugged. "I always just wanted to create."

"You are so wonderfully fresh," the director remarked with a chuckle. "Art is art, Evie, but selling, that's the game. A man can't feed his family a painting. He can't keep the rain off their heads with a sculpture. So, how do you convince him to bring art into his home? How do you make it necessary for him? Necessary enough that he sacrifices for it?"

"Call me naïve, but I think you appeal to his soul, make him feel something so visceral, he can't walk away."

"How utterly idealistic of you. You are a true artist," Joanna said softly, and there was no insult in the pronouncement. Still, Evie couldn't help but feel the director's words weren't exactly a compliment, either. They continued walking around the space, examining each piece, recentering a few of them on their tables and pedestals. "You've nearly hit the nail on its head, but you've missed something important."

"Oh?"

"A man can always walk away, no matter what he feels. You must convince him that he shouldn't."

Evie nodded her head once, conceding Joanna's point. "You must think I'm so simple…"

"I think you a woman of stunning talent, and I want to see that talent rewarded and funded well into the future." They stopped in the center of the back room of the gallery. "Look, I'm not trying to jade you, I'm just trying to help you get a foothold. There's a reason the term 'starving artist' is so well-known…"

"Oh, I understand. Believe me." Evie's laugh was tinged with bitterness. "I am well-acquainted with that life."

"All I want is for you to be able to leave that life behind for good. Playing the game is part of that."

"No, I get it, Joanna. And you have to know how grateful I am to you, for this opportunity, and for your advice along the way. Both you and Phillip have been so great to me. I really wish there was some way I could pay you back."

"I can't speak for Phillip, but the forty percent commission the gallery earns on every sale is more than adequate payback for me," the director pointed out with a smirk. "Now, go have a toast with your friends over there, and get ready. The doors open in five."

Evie had moved gracefully from this guest to that one, led by the elbow or with a light touch at the small of her back by Phillip, or herded more urgently by Joanna. She'd demurred, charmed, lectured when asked, joked, accepted compliments, and given them, at times. She'd nodded along with stories, polite amusement coloring her features when the Weinstocks recalled an anecdote which had played out at a summer soiree they'd attended with Phillip in the Hamptons. She'd debated cleverly with Edgar Howard (while his not-wife was in the powder room) over the notion that ceramics and sculpture were one in the same rather than their own separate mediums.

Joanna had cautioned her that Edgar would have opinions, but she hadn't let on that they'd be so well-informed. The man was absolutely convinced he was right, which was not shocking to Evie, but the charm and intelligence with which he engaged in the argument was.

"Mr. Howard, I can't say you've convinced me wholly, but you've given me a lot to think about," she finally admitted.

"It's Ed," the man replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Now, show me which of the pieces is your favorite. That's the one I'm going to buy."

When the crowd was at its thickest and the champagne had flushed Evie's cheeks pink, Yusuf found her and squeezed her hand, congratulating her on her triumph. "I just made a sweep of the place. Almost every piece is sold."

She knew that already. Joanna had told her as much about ten minutes earlier, and the director was convinced she could translate the near sell-out into a total sell-out simply by pointing out to her clients on the fence that they were about to miss their chance. Evie had to admire the way the woman could work a sale. It was not a part of the business she enjoyed, so she was glad she had someone who seemed to thrive off that challenge in her corner.

"Are you okay?" Yusuf asked. "I thought you'd be more excited."

"Oh, I am," she assured him, glancing around the gallery, eyes searching for familiar glossy black hair.

"Then why are you so nervous?"

Her eyes snapped back to the warm café au lait of her companion's. "I… nervous? No. I'm just…" She glanced down at her half-empty flute. "Too much champagne, I think. It sneaks up on you."

Yusuf eyed her dubiously. "Okay. Can I get you some water, maybe?"

She nodded. "That would be nice."

As he walked away, Phillip approached, all his perfect white teeth showing as he grinned at her. "An absolute smash, my dear," he told her as he gripped her bicep lightly. "I knew you'd be a star."

His words called something back to Evie's thoughts. She'd been so busy making small talk and greeting clients that it had totally slipped her mind to thank him for his gift. She smiled gratefully at him, bowing her head a moment, then saying, "Speaking of stars, you know, you really are too generous. Thank you so much for the beautiful pins."

The jeweler gave her a quizzical look. "Pins?"

"Yes, the hair pins." She reached back and touched them again, turning so that he could see them.

"I agree, they're beautiful, but they didn't come from me."

"But…" Evie's brows pinched in confusion. "They're from your store and…"

"Yes, I recognize the design."

"They were delivered to my door today, in a P. Norton Powell bag." The vague disquiet she'd been feeling all day intensified. "The card wasn't signed, but I just assumed…"

Phillip shrugged. "I wish I could take credit, but I didn't send them. Whoever did is a great admirer though."

"Yeah, I'll say," she laughed. "Gold and diamonds…"

"No, I mean, those particular pins are a limited edition set that we made ten years ago. As far as I know, all of them had sold but one set left in our New Orleans location. They were displayed there almost as a museum piece. They didn't even have a price tag."

"I don't understand."

"We have them appraised every year, for insurance purposes. They weren't really for sale, but of course, in a jewelry store, everything is always for sale. Our rule is, if someone wants a display piece bad enough and offers at least twice the appraisal value, the store managers may sell at their discretion." Phillip leaned down to murmur in Evie's ear. "My dear, someone must've wanted to impress you very badly. You're wearing at least one hundred thousand dollars in your hair."

She stared up at him, aghast, her hand flying to her throat as though she were choking. Evie swallowed, glancing around the gallery. She spied Trey speaking with Yusuf as Grace sipped champagne. She saw Joanna walking Edgar Howard and his mistress to the front doors, smiling, no doubt, at the thought of her commission off his purchase. She saw the Weinstocks holding court next to one of the large vases that reached past her waist. None of them had reason to send her such a gift, and those that might couldn't afford it.

Her eyes narrowed as she realized there were only two men she knew with the means and perhaps the motivation to make this sort of purchase. One of them was dead, and the other…

"Excuse me," she said to Phillip, striding away with a frown as she fished her cell phone from her clutch. She ducked into Joanna's darkened office in the rear of the gallery, pulling up her contacts and scrolling until she found the number she needed. She punched call with her thumb and waited for him to answer.

"Evelyn," Oliver said. It sounded as though he suppressed a yawn as he did. "What time is it?" She heard rustling in the background and then he cleared his throat. "It's a quarter past two, dear cousin. What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me what the fuck you're up to," she hissed.

"Well, presently, I'm attempting to sleep, since, as I pointed out, it's two-fifteen in the morning here."

"So, you're in London?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Don't be cute with me."

"No one is cute this time in the morning, I assure you. What do you need?"

"First, I need for you to explain to me why you sent me a gift that's worth at least a hundred grand." She hesitated a moment, wondering if she was crazy, but then added, "And second, I want you to tell me what kind of dealings you have with P. Norton Powell."

Oliver had denied everything. He hadn't sent the gift, or so he claimed. And he had no direct dealings with Phillip, though he could not say if the family had ever provided him real estate services in the past. If so, it was not his direct account and he had no knowledge of it. Or so he claimed.

And so, as the evening ended in a sell-out, delighting her friends and the Fincher Gallery's formidable director, Evie found herself on edge. Phillip had congratulated her, Trey and Grace had whooped and fist-pumped as the last of the guests departed, Joanna had given her an approving nod, promising that this was just the beginning, and Yusuf had expressed just how blown away he was by her.

It barely registered.

Mysterious jewelry delivered with an unsigned note. A family who had proven her value to them was measured merely in dollars. Success she couldn't be sure was entirely her own (though this, she chastised herself over, since her only evidence was gleaned from a disturbingly lucid dream). Art created from a place so personal, with an inspiration so horrifying, now in the hands of others. All these things served to torment her when she should have been exulting.

And then there was Yusuf. Handsome, sincere, funny, intelligent Yusuf. He wanted her, it was more evident tonight than it had ever been, but when she looked at him, she couldn't help but see him bleeding out, slumped over a table at the coffee shop, Walt staring at her over his lifeless body, all his sharp teeth stained red.

It was stupid to let a nightmare dictate their relationship, she knew that, and Walt was dead, she knew that, too, but when Yusuf leaned in to kiss her, she turned, giving him her cheek all the same. She told herself she was being crazy, but the thought that kissing him might somehow put him in danger filled her mind.

And then, of course, there was the fact that she was in love with someone else.

Evie stiffened at the thought, brushing it aside as she said her goodbyes before getting into the car with Trey and Grace to go home. They'd tried to convince her to come out and celebrate, but she begged off, citing her business luncheon with Phillip the next day as the reason.

"Gotta be rested enough to stay sharp," she told them with a laugh. "He's a shark of a businessman."

Grace snorted. "You know he wouldn't do you like that. You're his protégé."

"Look at you," Evie whistled. "When did you suddenly decide to start trusting old white men?"

Her friend clucked her tongue. "He is not that old. There's still some gas in that tank…"

"Babe," Trey said with a hint of disgust (and perhaps a hint of jealousy).

"What? I'm just saying, P. Norton Powell is not on his last legs. He's a good-looking man and…"

"Babe." Trey's tone was a bit more pleading.

"…and he has a thing for our Ms. Evelyn. No way he screws her over on a business deal. Not this early on. Not when he still thinks there's a chance he might get into her panties."

"Babe!" Trey barked a startled laugh.

"Grace!" Evie said at the same time. She huffed, then said, "He's old enough to be my father!"

"Okay, well, he doesn't look at you like a father looks at a daughter," Grace muttered. Her words made the hairs on the back of Evie's neck prickle.

"What did you say?" she asked. Her voice had gone hoarse. Before her friend could answer, the car pulled up the her building. Trey hopped out, rounding the car to open Evie's door.

"Congratulations again, Evie," he said, pecking her cheek as she slid from the car and straightened.

"I'll call you, girl!" Grace cried from the backseat as Evie headed for the door to her building.

She waved at them both, glancing up and down the street, and finding it mostly deserted as she slid her key in the lock and opened the door. Once she closed it behind her, listening as the lock engaged, she leaned back against the cool glass pane in the door's center, wondering why she hadn't seen Walt. In all the time that had passed since she left Whitby, he'd never failed to show after she'd dreamed of him. She simply couldn't account for his absence.

"You really are crazy," she mumbled to herself, pushing away from the door and slipping her heels off so she could climb the four flights of stairs to her apartment more comfortably. "You should just be glad your hallucinations have finally gone away."

When she reached her door, she opened the two deadbolts and then twisted the key in the handle. As she entered her place and locked the door behind her, she dropped her shoes off to the side and placed her clutch on the small table pushed against the wall in the entryway. Evie sighed, letting all the ups and downs of the day wash over her. She strode forward, heading for a lamp across the room to turn it on, knowing the route by heart but still stumbling slightly over a shoe that she'd inadvertently left in the path.

Before she reached the lamp, she heard a faint click and the bulb flickered to life. There, in the chair just next to the lamp, sat a very handsome, very relaxed Walter De Ville, hand poised just at the lamp's switch. Gracefully, he pulled it back, resting it on the arm of the chair. His posture was casual, the curl of his lip as seductive as ever. Evie blinked, thinking she must be seeing things.

"Hello, darling," he said.