(Evelyn's POV)
The frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the windows that morning, a lacework of white and silver that the pale sun could barely warm. Evelyn sat at the window seat in her bedroom, one knee drawn up beneath her nightgown, cradling a mug of tea between her palms.
From here she could see the gardens stretching beyond the terrace — bare rosebushes, skeletal hedges, the frozen fountain. Even stripped of bloom, the Rothwell estate had a kind of cold beauty, the kind that endured without softening.
She had been awake for hours.
She told herself it was because of the exhibition last night, the hum of polite conversation still clinging to her like perfume. But she knew better.
It wasn't the exhibition that kept replaying in her mind.
It was him.
Vale, they were calling him. But she had seen the man behind the name. She knew the sharpness in his eyes was not the calculation of a stranger, but the focus of a man who had once been cornered, betrayed, and left for dead.
Damien Kane.
Alive.
She had spent years convincing herself she'd imagined that night — the chaos on the pier, the shouting, the sound of something breaking, the fisherman hauling a half-conscious man from the dark water. But when she'd seen him across the gallery last night, standing with the air of a man who belonged everywhere and trusted no one… she'd known. Instantly.
She pressed the rim of the mug to her lips, letting the steam fog her vision.
There were so many questions she could have asked. Why he hadn't come back. Why he had let the world think he was dead. Why he was here now, wearing another man's name like armor.
But the truth was simpler. She had not spoken to him because Clara had been there.
The door burst open without a knock, and Evelyn's elder sister swept in like a gust of perfume and winter air. Clara was already dressed for the day, her champagne-blonde hair pinned in loose waves, her cashmere sweater tucked neatly into a cream skirt.
"You're not even ready," Clara said, glancing at the nightgown with mild disapproval. "Mother's already downstairs."
"I'll be down in a minute," Evelyn said, taking another sip of tea.
Clara crossed the room, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement Evelyn had learned to recognize — and dread.
"You didn't tell me you'd met Mr. Vale before," Clara said, settling onto the edge of the window seat.
Evelyn blinked slowly. "I haven't."
"Then why did it feel like you had?" Clara's voice was curious, not accusatory. "I noticed the way you looked at him. Like you were trying to remember something."
Evelyn gave a small shrug, schooling her features into mildness. "I was just… curious. He doesn't seem like the usual kind of donor Father courts."
"Oh, he's fascinating," Clara said with a little laugh. "So perfectly polite, and yet you can tell he's… different. The way he listens. I told him about the restoration project in Florence and he actually knew the names of the original architects."
Evelyn's stomach tightened, but she kept her expression warm. "I'm glad you enjoyed talking to him."
Clara's eyes softened. "You would have too, if you'd spoken more. You spent most of the evening hovering near the mezzanine like you were hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," Evelyn said lightly. "Just… observing."
Clara turned toward the garden, her voice going quieter. "Do you think he'll come to the gala next month?"
Evelyn made a noncommittal sound.
"I hope so," Clara said. "I think Father would like him."
Evelyn forced herself to nod, even as the thought twisted in her chest. She wanted to warn Clara, to tell her the man she admired was not the man he appeared to be. But that would mean explaining how she knew. That would mean telling the story she had buried for years — the story that belonged to Damien as much as it did to her.
And she wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
When Clara left, Evelyn set the empty mug aside and crossed to her dresser. She pulled open the top drawer, pushing aside a neat row of silk scarves until her fingers found the worn leather notebook hidden beneath them.
It wasn't much to look at — just a travel journal from years ago, the pages filled with sketches and pressed flowers from places she'd visited before the world had shifted under her feet. But tucked between two pages near the back was something she rarely let herself look at.
A newspaper clipping.
The headline was bold, final: Damien Kane Missing, Presumed Dead.
There was a grainy photograph — Damien at some charity dinner, his tuxedo sharp, his smile faint but present. She'd kept it not because she'd believed he was gone, but because it was the only proof she had that what happened that night had been real.
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the clipping. Last night, standing in that gallery, she had felt the same pulse of adrenaline she'd felt on the pier all those years ago. The same certainty that she was in the presence of a man caught between survival and danger.
And now he was here.
By the time she joined her family in the breakfast room, she had her mask firmly in place. Her parents were discussing an upcoming trip to Vienna, Clara was making notes in her planner, and Evelyn smiled at the right moments, spoke when spoken to, and kept her thoughts locked tight.
But beneath the surface, her mind was already moving.
Damien hadn't sought her out last night. That meant either he hadn't recognized her… or he had, and was choosing not to approach.
Either way, she couldn't let the next move be his.
Because men like Damien Kane — men who could vanish and return under another name — didn't play fair. And if he was here for the Kane family's enemies, or for revenge, or for something darker… she needed to know.
Before he decided she was part of the game.
That night, alone again in her room, Evelyn stood by the window and watched the frost creep back across the glass. Somewhere out there in the city, Damien was moving his pieces across the board.
She would be ready when he looked her way.