Deadly Oath

Chapter One

Evelyn

The bright Christmas lights twinkle on the snow outside as I hand-stitch the last of the seed pearls onto the gown that I designed especially for tonight, glancing up to check the clock on the wall to see what time it is. I need to be at my best friend Dahlia’s apartment in an hour, to start getting ready for her big night tonight, and I’m already coming in under the wire with this one. But I want it to be perfect. It meant a lot to me that she asked me to design her dress, and I can’t wait for her to see the finished product.

I hang the dress up, going over it once more for any loose threads or flaws, and then zip it into a black matte garment bag, the name of my shop emblazoned in curling gold script on the back. Pearls & Lace. My life’s dream in two words, years worth of fashion school and long nights, literal blood and sweat and tears culminating in this small building filled with silk and lace and velvet, mannequins and needles and pins, and clothing of every shape and size.

My boutique. It means everything to me, and the fact that I was able to make my best friend’s gown tonight is the cherry on top.

I shrug into my peacoat and yank a beanie down over my hair, ignoring the fact that it’s going to frizz on account of the wool. Dahlia will have some means of fixing that—she always does—and I can’t afford to be late. Not tonight.

Grabbing the other garment bag, the one containing my dress for the evening, I hurry out to the curb, snow crunching under my boots as I flag down a cab. I was so lost in my work that I forgot to call an Uber, and now I have to put my faith in the New York City taxi service. Which is a pretty big ask, on a Friday evening the week before Christmas.

I get lucky, though—luckier than I expected. One comes along within five minutes—empty, even—and I flag it down, carefully laying the garment bags over the seat before sliding in behind them. I give the driver Dahlia’s address, and then sit back, tugging off my leather gloves to text her that I’m on my way.

Evelyn: Got a cab. Be there in thirty minutes, hopefully. If there’s no traffic jams.

Dahlia: I’ll go ahead and start on my hair. We can’t be late!!!

Leaning my head back against the seat with a sigh, I watch the scenery pass as the driver weaves his way through traffic, the sound of car horns a cacophony in the background. But it’s part of living in the city, and I’ve long since gotten used to it. I don’t actually know what I would do in silence, now. Probably go nuts, without the constant background hum of traffic, passersby, and vendors.

This time of year is my favorite. The city is loud year-round, but there’s an added element of joy this time of year, a festive chaos that I thrive in. I love the lights and the music and the cold, the colors and the textures. Orders that come in for the holidays are my favorite, too, always so much more luxurious and tactile than any other time of year. There’s a richness to the season that I love, and I’m never happier than I am from the end of November through the very first part of the new year.

I check my watch as the driver pulls up in front of the pre-war building that Dahlia’s apartment is in, relieved to see that we got here faster than I expected. I hand him a tip and gently scoop up the garment bags, not bothering to put my gloves back on as I slide out into the frigid air and hurry to the front door.

Dahlia buzzes me up, and I find her in her shell-pink bathroom, her blonde hair done up in rollers, squinting into the mirror as she applies her false eyelashes. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaims as I walk in, her nose wrinkling as she sees my hat. “Evelyn, what have I told you about wearing beanies?—”

“It’ll break the edges of my hair.” I yank the beanie off, ignoring the horror in Dahlia’s face when she sees the static. “It’s fine. I’m sure you have some magic product that will smooth it all over. Literally.”

“I do.” She opens a cabinet with one hand while poking the corner of her eyelash strip with the other, pulling out a silver bottle and setting it on the counter. “Curl your hair first. Then use this. It’ll put all that static right down.”

I hang up the garment bags, noting the open bottle of champagne and two flutes at one corner of Dahlia’s long bathroom counter. One flute is half-full, at her elbow, and the other is empty—presumably for me. I pour myself a glass, watching out of the corner of my eye as Dahlia applies her other eyelash.

“I’m so glad you’re going with me tonight,” Dahlia says as she glues it down, blinking rapidly. “Even if I had a significant other to go with, this is going to be so much more fun. And so much more special, to have you there. One of those memories that I’m going to keep forever.”

“I’m happy that you asked me to go. And that you asked me to make the dress, especially.” I unzip my garment bag, taking out the dress that I picked for myself. It’s much simpler than Dahlia’s—a slinky cranberry red velvet gown that goes to the floor, hugging my figure but without any frills or adornment. It has thin straps and a slit up one side, and I’ll accentuate it with accessories, but I didn’t want to show Dahlia up in any way. Her dress is the showstopper tonight, and I didn’t want anything to take away from that .

“Who else would I ask?” She flashes me a brilliant smile. “For a night like this, I wouldn’t want a dress from anyone else.”

She plugs in a curling iron for me—I’ve never gotten the hang of hot rollers—and we sip champagne and get ready together side by side. I know the limits of my capability with makeup, so I don’t bother with the fake eyelashes or the contour that Dahlia does, transforming her face into a sculpted work of art. Instead I just do the basics, showcasing the one thing I am really good at—an excellent cat eye. I swipe on a thick coat of mascara, add a deep red lipstick that matches my dress, and slip on a pair of nude heels before shaking out my curls and sweeping the candy-scented gloss that Dahlia gave me to handle the frizz through them.

Dahlia is just finishing up, too, brushing through her own thick blonde curls and adding the last touches on her nude lipstick before looking at the garment bag hanging on the wall. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see.”

I bite my lip, reaching for the zipper. I’m actually nervous—I put an immense amount of effort into every dress that I make, but this one is special.

Dahlia gasps when I take the gown out. It’s made of dark gold silk, meant to drape over her like an old Hollywood siren’s gown, but the front is an elaborate work of art. Tulle is draped and twisted over the sheer lace that makes up the front of the gown, hiding everything that shouldn’t be seen, sculpted in waves from one shoulder all the way down to the opposite hem. And underneath every curve of the sheer gold tulle, I handstitched tiny seed pearls that will catch the light when she moves, like froth on gold waves.

“This is insane, Evie,” she whispers, her eyes widening when she looks at the dress. “You know everyone on the museum board is over sixty, right? I’m going to give all those old men a heart attack.”

“They’ll go out happy.” I unzip the dress gently as Dahlia slides her robe off, holding it so that she can step into the dress. When it’s on, I arrange it so that it’s sitting perfectly on her slender frame, zipping up the side and fussing over the tulle to make sure it all lays just right.

“I look like I’m going onstage at an awards ceremony.”

“You are ,” I laugh, handing her the gold drop earrings that she picked to wear with the dress.

“I mean—like movie awards, or something.”

“You like it, right? It’s not too much?” I bite my lip, suddenly concerned. I’d gone all out, using the references Dahlia gave me, but now I’m second-guessing myself. We’re going to a museum, not the Oscars, and I’m suddenly worried that I overdid it.

“No,” Dahlia says firmly, turning and squeezing the sides of my face as she air-kisses right above my forehead. “It’s perfect. I just want to stare at it all night.”

“If you do that, we’re going to be late.” I slide my own earrings into my ears—a pair of onyx studs—and slip my lipstick into my red-beaded clutch. “Did you call the Uber?”

“Five minutes ago.” Dahlia tosses back the last of her champagne. “Let’s go.”

I have a vintage fur stole that I brought to wear over my dress, and Dahlia puts on a Burberry trench over hers, before we head out to the waiting car, heels clicking on the stairs as we go down. The elevator in Dahlia’s building is ancient, and if there’s one night that neither of us is willing to risk getting stuck in it, it’s tonight.

Traffic is thick getting to the Met, but I don’t mind. The city has come even more alive since I got to her apartment, the streets filled with last-minute shoppers, people going out to dinner and to events, showing family that’s in town around the city. I watch as the crowds drift by, wondering what’s going on with the individuals that I glimpse. If they’re excited, happy, sad, lonely—every one of them has a story, and I can’t help wondering what it might be. The city is so large, and so full of possibilities.

There’s a long line of cars curving around the outside of the Met, dropping off guests and attendees, and Dahlia motions to her door. “Let’s get out and walk,” she says. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Okay.” I don’t mind the cold, even if I’m not entirely dressed for it, and at the rate the line is moving, the gala will have already started by the time we get inside. I follow Dahlia out, stepping carefully along the icy sidewalk in my heels, one hand clutching the front of my stole as we go.

We’re almost to the stairs when my heel hits a slick patch of ice, and I feel myself go sideways, scrabbling for purchase with nothing to grab onto.

Shit, I’m going to go down. And ruin Dahlia’s night, because there’s no way I won’t be hurt ? —

A strong arm goes around me, pinning my arms briefly to my sides as I’m righted, and a wave of juniper and woods-scented cologne washes over me. I suck in a breath—both from shock and because it smells so damn good —and twist around, looking to see who my savior is.

The culprit is a tall man with dark blond hair expertly cut and swept away from his face, blue eyes sparkling mischievously at me as he relaxes his grip—though he doesn’t pull his arm away entirely. My gaze goes immediately to his suit—he’s wearing perfectly tailored, dark charcoal wool, with a dark green velvet vest under the jacket as a presumable nod to the season.

Stylish and handsome . And he smells delicious. My pulse kicks up a notch, fluttering in the hollow of my throat as he smiles.

“Are you alright? You almost took a tumble there.”

His accent is distinct—Russian—and it only adds to his charm, giving his otherwise sleek outward appearance a bit of an edge. When I look up at him, I see a hint of dark blond stubble on his jaw, which surprises me, too. Most men who dress like him, and come to events like these, are either clean-shaven or have meticulously manicured beards. It seems like a purposeful way to add a bit of rakishness to his appearance, especially when combined with the accent.

“Evelyn? Are you okay?” Dahlia’s worried voice comes from behind me, and I straighten quickly, ignoring my racing pulse as I realize that I’m now bracketed by two worried people.

“I’m fine,” I assure them both, turning back towards Dahlia. “We’re going to be late. Thank you?—”

“Dimitri,” the man offers, and I give him a smile.

“Dimitri. Thank you for catching me. But my friend is getting an award tonight, so you’re going to have to excuse us. I don’t want to be the reason she doesn’t get to have a drink before getting up on stage.”

The man—Dimitri—chuckles, letting go of me. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason for that, either. Maybe I’ll see you inside, Evelyn.”

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, his voice smoky and alluring, like he’s promising all sorts of things with just that one word. I take a step back, ignoring the way I instantly miss the heat of his palm against my spine, trying to shake off the feeling that this man gives me.

I haven’t had much time for dating in my life. I’ve been too focused on my dreams of the boutique to care much about a relationship, and it’s paid off. Men—as I’ve seen in spades from Dahlia’s dating life—are fickle. Unreliable. But my business was built with my own commitment and hard work, and it won’t abandon me. I haven’t regretted where I’ve spent my energy for a single moment.

And while I might not be all that experienced, I know enough to know that men like Dimitri are trouble.

“Maybe.” I flash him one more smile, before carefully picking my way around the ice to join Dahlia. “Thanks again.”

“Holy shit, he is gorgeous ,” Dahlia hisses as we pick up our pace, her arm looping around mine to try and hold me steady as we make our way to the steps of the Met. She has more experience walking in heels than I do—she wears them just about every day, whereas I wear whatever is the most comfortable for sewing and fittings—and I’m grateful for the support. “You should have gotten his number.”

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “That’s the kind of man who would sweet-talk me into bed, spend one night with me, and then never call me again.”

“But what a hell of a night it would be.” Dahlia sighs. “Did you hear his accent ?”

“It was right in my ear, so yes.”

Dahlia makes a pouting face at me as we breeze past the ushers, into the blissful warmth of the museum interior. “You have to break that dry spell eventually, Evie. And that man could drench your?—”

“ Dahlia !” I hiss.

She rolls her eyes playfully, shrugging off her trench and handing it to the coat check girl, along with my stole, and taking two tickets. “I’m just saying. What’s the harm? If you don’t want anything serious, then it doesn’t matter that he wouldn’t call you again. And one night with him would be enough to keep your garden watered for months , I bet.”

“I’m not good at casual. You know that.” I’ve tried it before. One-night-stands, two-night-stands, situationships that last a few weeks. Somehow, no matter how many times I remind myself from the start of why I don’t want it to be long term, I end up feeling like it’s my fault that it doesn’t work out. And it just bums me out. I don’t like being bummed out—so the obvious choice is to avoid that altogether.

“The only way to get better at something is practice.” Dahlia waves to a few of her coworkers as we head to the bar, where a uniformed man who already looks like he wants to be somewhere else is handing a glass of white wine to an octogenarian woman in a hideous blue velvet wrap dress. I wince at the way it drapes over her—I can think of a dozen ways off of the top of my head to fix the cut so that it would be far more flattering. Elderly doesn’t have to mean you lose your style . I’ve said it to so many clients, and they’ve all left happier than they were before. I’m itching to give her my business card and offer her a consult, but I promised Dahlia no business tonight. Tonight is all about her.

Dahlia orders us both a drink from the holiday menu—something called a ‘sugarplum spritz’ as I glance back towards the doors. I tell myself that I’m not looking for Dimitri, but the truth is that I’m trying to pick out that dark blond hair and green velvet vest among the crowd of attendees.

“Looking for your new boyfriend?” Dahlia teases, handing me a glass, and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Just taking in the scenery. They really went all out decorating, didn’t they?” The museum is strewn with garlands, ribbon and holly, festive centerpieces on each of the tables, with bright candlelight flickering. Off to one side of the lobby entrance is a huge tree, twinkling with lights .

“They always do. But especially tonight.” Dahlia gestures towards the tables. “Let’s go find our seat.”

A number of guests and Dahlia’s coworkers stop her and compliment her on her dress, and she passes them on to me every time, whispering to me that the ‘no business’ clause is suspended long enough for me to pass them business cards from my clutch—which I brought, just in case. Once at our table, our drinks are supplemented with champagne whisked from passing trays, and the first course of shrimp cocktail is served while the first of the night’s speakers come out on stage.

“I got a sneak peek at the menu,” Dahlia whispers as she grabs a piece of shrimp. “Dig in, it’s gonna be great.”

I fully intend to. While I love owning my own business, it means money is tight, especially living in New York—and unlike Dahlia, I don’t have rich parents to help supplement my expenses. I eat dollar ramen and canned spaghetti-os more often for dinner than I’d like to admit, and I’m more than happy to add several of the shrimp to my plate as the servers circulate with each of the starting plates.

The rest of the meal is equally delicious—winter salad with pears and gorgonzola, duck breast with orange glaze and sage-roasted potatoes, and creme brulee for dessert. As I snag another glass of champagne off of a passing tray, I see a head of dark blond hair several tables away, and freeze as the man turns towards me, reaching for his own glass of champagne.

It’s Dimitri. His blue eyes catch mine, as if he was looking for me, too, and he tips the glass in my direction, a smirk on his full mouth. A shiver runs down my spine, and I quickly look away, focusing on Dahlia, who is touching up her lipstick nervously as the awards ceremony begins.

She’s receiving an award for curatorial excellence tonight, a huge step forward in her career, and all thoughts of Dimitri flee my mind as she stands up and I help her make sure the dress is arranged just right. All of the eyes in the room are going to be on her as she goes up to the stage, and I want to make sure that it’s perfect.

And it is. Dahlia is practically glowing as she goes up on stage to accept her award, giving a short speech about how much the museum means to her and how thrilled she is to spend her career working with such amazing pieces of art. My heart feels light in my chest as I listen to her, my face hurting from the smile stretching across it from ear to ear.

“I can’t believe we’re both so lucky,” Dahlia whispers as she comes back to her chair, squeezing my shoulder, her smile matching mine. “We’re both getting to live out our dream careers. In New York. This is the perfect end to the year.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand as she sits down. She’s right, and I can’t help but think that next year is shaping up to be even better.

“Let’s dance,” Dahlia says, as the music picks up and the guests start to move from their tables out to the dance floor in front of the stage. “Maybe I’ll meet some sexy art collector who wants to hear all about my work.”

It’s anyone’s guess if he’s an art collector, but a handsome dark-haired man who looks to be about our age sweeps Dahlia away from me not long after we step onto the dance floor. She gives me an apologetic look, and I shrug, flashing her a thumbs-up. I’m just about to turn and head back to our table—and another glass of champagne—when a hand touches the small of my back.

I know it’s Dimitri before I even turn around. I can smell the juniper and woods of his cologne, and I turn towards him, looking up at his chiseled, handsome face.

“Come for another ‘thank you’ for catching me earlier?” I ask, determined not to let myself be overwhelmed by how attractive he is—or how alluring. I can feel that there’s chemistry between us, and it could be dangerous, if I allow it. My heart is fluttering just from how close he is, from his scent and the heat of his body, and anything that makes me feel this strongly about another person is something I should run from.

“Just here to make sure you have your footing. Plenty of tripping hazards on a dance floor like this.” His hand hasn’t shifted from the small of my back, splayed across the velvet of my dress like it belongs there, and although I know I should tell him to remove it, something stops me.

“Like what?” I ask tartly, as that hand presses more firmly, pulling me in for a dance. My hands settle on his shoulders automatically, feeling the soft wool of his jacket under my fingers, and I’m even more certain that this man is trouble.

“You might fall for me.” He spins me abruptly, pulling me back in, and my eyes go wide, my mouth dropping slightly open.

“That’s awful. A terrible pick-up line. I should leave you on this dance floor for that, right now.”

“But you’re not going to.” Confidence ripples through his voice as his fingers stroke along my spine, making warmth bloom through me.

Maybe Dahlia is right. Maybe one night with a man like this is just what I need. A little Christmas gift for being a good girl all year.

“I’ve been known to have poor judgement in men.”

“Perfect. I’m feeling better than ever about my chances.” He smiles down at me, and all I can think is that no man who looks this perfect can be anything but a bad idea. “You said you were here for your friend tonight. Do you work for the museum, too?”

I shake my head. “I design clothing. Dahlia’s dress tonight is one of mine.”

His eyes widen. “Stunning. You have real talent, Evelyn.”

Every time he says my name, in that ridiculous accent of his, shivers run down my spine. I swallow hard, resummoning my determination not to let this man get under my skin. But his appreciation for my designing skills is flattery that I’m ill-equipped to resist.

“What about you?” I ask, trying to quickly change the subject. “What do you do?”

For the first time, I see him hesitate. “You could say I’m in—upper management,” he says finally.

“Secretive. And suspicious, that you can’t just come out and tell me.”

“A little mystery is sexy, I hear.”

Not to me. In my experience, mystery means secrets, things that will come out and bite me later. I’d rather know who a person is, what they want, what I’m dealing with, up front. I don’t want to be surprised by who a person is, far off down the line. In fact, that caginess is exactly what I need to remind me that no matter how handsome Dimitri is, he’s someone I shouldn’t get involved with even for a night.

“You haven’t told me where you work,” he says. “Or what fashion house you design for.”

“You could find me, if I did.” I look up at his gorgeous blue eyes, a tiny flicker of regret flashing through me as I think of never seeing him again. But I know where my poor decision-making when it comes to men has gotten me in the past, and I’m determined not to go down that road. “And I think this is where our conversation ends, Dimitri. Thank you for helping me earlier, but it’s time we go our separate ways.”

The music is slowing, and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “I was going to ask for your number. I’d love to take you out. I know this time of year can be busy, but?—”

“No.” The word comes out more harshly than I mean for it to, but if I give him even an inch, I’m afraid I’ll give in altogether. I can still feel the heat of his hand against my spine as I step away, and I take a slow breath, reminding myself that chemistry is just that. A spark that is easily doused. “I’m afraid not. Good night, Mr.--”

“Yashkov. Dimitri Yashkov.” He smiles at me, but there’s a hint of sadness to it now, too. “Evelyn?—”

“Good night,” I blurt out again, spinning on my heel, half afraid that it’ll fly off in my hurry and I’ll leave it behind like Cinderella, a way for Dimtri Yashkov to find me after tonight. But both of my shoes stay on my feet, and when I make it back to my table, my heart hammering, I no longer see him on the dance floor.

And as far as I know, I’ll never see him again.