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Chapter 16 - chapter 15

Margaret noticed the flicker in Evelyn's eyes and followed her gaze. The moment her eyes landed on Julian Reed in his uniform, her smile sharpened into something cold, assessing.

"A soldier?" Margaret said softly, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "So that's what distracts you. How quaint."

Evelyn stiffened. "He is not—" she began, but her mother cut her off.

"Evelyn, listen to me," Margaret said firmly, setting her teacup down with a faint clink. "You stand on the edge of greatness, but one misstep, one… attachment of the wrong sort, and it could all crumble. Soldiers are fleeting. They are swallowed by war, by duty, by death. You cannot anchor your life to a man who may not live to see next year."

Evelyn's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but the truth of war lay heavy in her chest. Still, she found her voice, fragile but steady. "And what if he isn't an anchor, but a compass?"

Margaret's eyes narrowed. "Then he will lead you astray."

Before Evelyn could reply, the French official hosting the luncheon waved the group of officers further into the hall. Julian, tall and composed despite his evident reluctance for such gatherings, followed behind Colonel Harrington. His gaze swept the room, disciplined, detached—until it found Evelyn again.

For the second time in two days, time seemed to stall. He did not falter in his stride, but something in his expression shifted, just for her—like recognition, like inevitability.

Margaret saw it, too. She leaned in, her voice low but cutting. "Whatever history lies between you two, sever it now. I won't have my daughter's name dragged down by a romance with a man the world will forget when the cannons fall silent."

Evelyn's hand trembled against her lap. Her mother's words were cruel, yet beneath them, Evelyn felt a stirring of defiance she hadn't known she possessed. For so long she had let silence protect her. But now, with Julian's presence filling the hall, she felt something inside her awaken.

Julian, meanwhile, stood with the other officers, his composure unshaken though his eyes kept returning to her. He saw her seated opposite a woman who looked enough like her to be kin, though the hardness in her features set her apart. He didn't need introductions to know: this is the mother. And by the tightness in Evelyn's shoulders, he knew whatever passed between them was a battle far sharper than polite tea.

The colonel leaned toward him, murmuring something about diplomatic courtesies, but Julian barely heard. His instincts—the same that had kept him alive in the field—told him Evelyn was under siege, and this time the enemy was not carrying a rifle.

And in that gilded room, beneath the chandeliers and the polished marble, Julian Reed made a quiet vow. He would not let her fight this war alone.

The luncheon began with the soft clatter of silverware and the low murmur of conversation, yet for Evelyn, every sound seemed dulled. Her mother's words still pressed against her chest, heavy and suffocating. She sat rigid at Margaret's side, her smile polite but hollow, while the French hosts and English officers exchanged their calculated pleasantries.

Julian sat only a few tables away, directly in her line of sight. He was attentive to the colonel, nodding when required, but his eyes—steady, searching—kept finding hers. Each stolen glance felt like a secret touch across the crowded hall, and Evelyn could hardly breathe for the awareness of it.

When the waiters brought in the next course, she dared lower her gaze, hoping to steady herself. But as the glasses were refilled and the conversations grew louder, she felt it again: that quiet, invisible pull. Looking up, she found Julian watching her—not with the detached curiosity of a stranger, but with the intensity of someone who had already begun to know her silences.

Margaret leaned in, her voice sharp beneath the polite hum of voices. "Stop fidgeting. You're being watched."

Evelyn's lips parted, a retort on her tongue, but she caught herself. Instead, she forced her hands still against her lap. Yes, I'm being watched, she thought bitterly, but not by the people you think.

After the final toast, the guests began to drift into the adjoining salon. Margaret swept ahead, engaged in lively conversation with a French patron, and Evelyn found herself momentarily alone, standing near the tall windows where sunlight spilled over the marble floor.

It was then Julian approached, his steps measured, his presence steady. He stopped just close enough that the air between them shifted.

"You looked trapped," he said quietly, his voice carrying only to her.

Evelyn's breath caught. "Because I was."

His mouth curved, just slightly. "I would have cut you free, if I could."

She turned her head sharply, meeting his gaze, startled by the honesty in it. No soldier's mask, no diplomat's courtesy—just a man speaking what he felt. "You barely know me," she whispered.

Julian tilted his head, eyes unwavering. "And yet I see you clearer than anyone in that room."

The words struck her like a chord, vibrating in the very place where music was born within her. For a moment, the noise of the salon faded, and it was only them—his quiet strength, her fragile longing, two lives drawn together by something neither could explain.

Their hands brushed as a guest passed between them, forcing them a fraction closer. Her glove grazed the rough fabric of his uniform sleeve, and the spark was undeniable, startling. She inhaled sharply, pulling her hand back before anyone could notice, though her skin burned where they had touched.

"Evelyn." Julian said her name like a promise, low and unshakable. "You don't have to stand against her alone."

Her heart thundered in her chest. She wanted to say stay, wanted to say don't let go, but her mother's laughter rang out nearby, reminding her of the dangers in every word, every glance. Instead, Evelyn whispered, "Then don't let go of me when I falter."

Julian's jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with something fierce and unspoken. "I won't."

And though they stood in a room full of eyes, beneath chandeliers and whispers of politics, Evelyn felt for the first time in years that someone truly saw her—not the prodigy, not the pawn, but the woman hidden behind the music.

The chatter of the salon swelled until Evelyn felt it pressing against her skull. Margaret was laughing too loudly, the French patrons were swirling in endless anecdotes, and the officers were boasting about campaigns and victories that left her cold. She needed air—desperately.

Slipping from the crowd, she pressed her hand to the edge of her gown and moved quietly toward the tall glass doors that led out to the gardens. The late afternoon light had softened into gold, the fountain outside spilling water that caught the glow like falling diamonds. She stepped onto the terrace, finally exhaling as the cool air touched her skin.

She wasn't alone.

Julian followed moments later, his footsteps deliberate, yet careful enough to suggest he didn't want to startle her. Evelyn turned, her pulse leaping before she could steady it.

"You'll be missed," she whispered.

"So will you," Julian replied, his tone warm, edged with something dangerous—something she both feared and longed for.

For a moment, neither spoke. The garden seemed suspended in stillness: the rustle of leaves, the faint murmur of the fountain, the soft glow of the fading sun. Julian moved closer, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You shouldn't be here," Evelyn murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Neither should you," he countered gently. His eyes searched hers, as if waiting for her to pull away, to retreat into the safety of silence. She didn't.

Evelyn's heart hammered as he lifted a hand, hesitating before brushing his fingers against her glove. "Every moment in that room, I wanted to speak to you. Not about politics. Not about war. Just… you."

Her breath trembled as she met his gaze. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple," Julian said softly, his thumb grazing over the seam of her glove as though memorizing her. "You and I—here, now—this is the only truth I need."

Evelyn's throat tightened. The sincerity in his words unsettled her, stripped away the walls she had built to survive her mother's suffocating control. Without thinking, she reached for him, her fingers grazing his sleeve. The world inside the hotel fell away, leaving only the warmth of his nearness, the way the late sun caught in his hair, the steady fire in his eyes.

"Julian…" she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.

He stepped closer, his hand cupping her cheek now, daring more than they should. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

Her breath caught, but no protest came. Instead, Evelyn leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for the briefest, dangerous second.

And then—somewhere behind them—the echo of laughter drifted from the salon. Evelyn jerked back, her chest heaving, though the imprint of his touch burned against her skin.

Julian's expression darkened with restrained longing, but he straightened, his voice steadier than he looked. "This isn't over, Evelyn. Not for me."

She wanted to answer, but fear tangled with desire, leaving her mute. All she could do was meet his gaze, her silence heavy with everything she couldn't yet say.

Evelyn tried to compose herself when she returned inside. The salon's brightness, the endless chatter, the swirl of perfume and cigar smoke—it all seemed louder, more suffocating, after the stillness of the garden. She took her seat beside Margaret, though her heart still raced, her cheek still burned where Julian's hand had lingered.

Margaret leaned close, whispering with a knowing grin, "My dear, where did you vanish? Half the room was looking for you."

"I needed air," Evelyn murmured, trying to keep her voice calm.

Margaret's eyes sparkled mischievously. "And I suppose it was only the garden you found?"

Evelyn gave a sharp glance, but Margaret laughed, patting her hand. "Oh, Evelyn. I've eyes, you know. And I saw the way that soldier—Mr. Reed, isn't it?—watched you during supper. If it were me, I'd faint on the spot."

"Margaret!" Evelyn hissed, though her cheeks flushed, betraying her. She lowered her voice. "You mustn't speak so. He's a soldier. His world… it isn't mine."

Margaret tilted her head. "And yet, you looked as though it very much was yours, at least for a moment."

Evelyn said nothing. She forced herself to look across the room, where Julian stood speaking with two of his companions. Yet even among the crowd, his presence pulled at her like a magnet. He glanced up at that very instant, and their eyes met. It was only a second—too brief, too dangerous—but it sent a tremor through her chest.

Later, when the evening wound down, someone at the piano began to play a clumsy waltz, their fingers stumbling over the keys. Evelyn watched as the notes collapsed under their weight, and she felt an ache to rescue the instrument, to give voice to what her heart couldn't say aloud.

"Play something for us, Miss Hart," a Frenchwoman urged, catching her eye. "We've all heard whispers of your talent. Surely you won't leave Paris without gifting us a piece?"

The crowd turned, voices rising in agreement. Evelyn's mother stiffened, clearly torn between wanting her daughter to shine and fearing she might attract too much notice.

Evelyn hesitated. Her pulse beat at her throat. She had played for audiences before, but never under this kind of scrutiny—not with Julian Reed somewhere in the room, listening.

Still, she rose. Slowly, gracefully, she crossed the salon and lowered herself onto the piano bench. Her gown spilled around her, her slender fingers hovering above the ivory keys. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of a clock.

And then she began to play.

It was Chopin—a nocturne, tender and aching, chosen not by her mind but by something deeper, something restless. The melody flowed, soft as candlelight, yet it carried a secret language woven between the notes. Evelyn didn't look at Julian, but she felt him. She felt his attention like warmth on her skin, as though every chord spoke directly to him.

The audience melted into quiet wonder. Her mother's critical stare softened, Margaret's lips parted in admiration. Yet Evelyn saw none of them. She poured her longing, her confusion, her unspoken desire into the piano, her music becoming the confession her lips dared not make.

And Julian—standing still now, his glass forgotten in his hand—understood. The intensity in his gaze told her he understood.

When the final note lingered in the air, fragile and trembling, the room erupted in applause. Evelyn rose, her cheeks flushed, her eyes lowered. She gave a graceful bow, but her heart was unsteady, her soul laid bare.

Across the salon, Julian Reed did not clap at first. He simply watched her, his jaw tight, his expression fierce with something he could not hide.

And Evelyn knew—whatever paths had brought them to this moment, they would not remain strangers for long.

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