POV: HIM
She learns fast.
That's the first thing I notice.
By the time I come out of the shower, Evelyn has already mapped the penthouse like a general preparing a siege. The staff addresses her without hesitation. The housekeeper asks her about linen preferences. The security chief nods when she passes.
She hasn't raised her voice once.
She hasn't needed to.
"How did you do that?" I ask, tying my cufflinks as I enter the bedroom.
She's seated at the vanity, applying lipstick like she's been doing it in my home for years.
"Do what?"
"Take over," I say flatly.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. "I didn't take over. I adapted."
That answer unsettles me more than arrogance would have.
I watch her through the reflection. The way she moves precise, intentional. No wasted gestures. No nervous habits.
This isn't a woman improvising revenge.
This is someone who planned it for years.
"You knew about the penthouse," I say. "The staff. The engagement clause. Me."
She presses her lips together, assessing the color. "Of course I did."
"How much?"
"All of it," she says calmly. "Your schedule. Your enemies. Your weaknesses."
I turn sharply. "Name one."
She doesn't hesitate. "You don't sleep well when you feel cornered. You skip breakfast before hostile meetings. And you underestimate women who don't ask for permission."
I still.
Those are not public details.
I step closer. "You hired someone."
"I was poor," she says lightly. "Not stupid."
For a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to break her composure to make her flinch, to make her lose control the way everyone else eventually does.
Instead, I straighten my jacket.
"Tonight," I say, "you smile. You touch my arm. You look at me like you want me."
Her gaze flicks up, amused. "And you?"
"I'll do what I always do," I reply. "Lie convincingly."
She stands, smoothing her dress.
"You don't have to pretend," she murmurs. "You already want to."
I laugh, sharp. "Careful."
She steps into my space, fingers adjusting my tie. The intimacy is surgical. Controlled. Deadly.
"I am careful," she whispers. "That's why you're still breathing."
The car ride to the restaurant is silent.
Too silent.
Cameras flash the moment we step out. Reporters shout questions. Investors smile too widely.
Evelyn slips her arm through mine.
Her touch is light.
And devastating.
I play my role. I always do. Hand at her waist. Smile perfected over decades of deception.
But when she leans up and murmurs, "You're gripping me too tightly," something fractures.
I loosen my hold.
That small correction shouldn't matter.
It does.
At dinner, she dazzles them.
Board members laugh at her wit. Journalists lean in. She speaks like she belongs among sharks because she does.
I watch her carefully.
And realize the truth.
She doesn't just want revenge.
She wants control.
Later, in the elevator, the doors sliding shut around us, I finally say it.
"You'll destroy everything if you keep pushing."
She turns to me, eyes bright, unafraid.
"Good," she says. "Then you'll know how it feels."
The elevator stops.
The doors open.
And for one irrational second, I consider kissing her hard, punishing, honest.
Instead, I step away.
Because wanting her is the first move in losing the war.