CHAPTER 3—LESSON ONE
2020 Words
Evie Lawson’s POV
The door swings open before I can change my mind.
Nathaniel stands there in different clothes—dark slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and no tie. He looks less polished than at dinner. More dangerous somehow, like seeing a wolf without its leash.
“Get dressed,” he says.
I’m suddenly aware I’m in pajama shorts and a tank top. I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s midnight.”
“I don’t care what time it is.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes travelling over me in a way that makes my skin prickle. “You have guests coming tomorrow night. You need to know how to behave.”
“I know how to behave at a dinner party—”
“No.” His voice cuts sharply. “You know how to behave at your dinner parties. This is different. These people will eat you alive if you show weakness.”
“Then maybe don’t make me go.”
He smiles, and it’s not a nice smile. “Get dressed. Something formal. You have ten minutes.”
He walks away, leaving my door wide open. An order without words—follow, or face consequences.
I want to slam the door. Crawl into bed. Pretend this is all a nightmare I’ll wake up from.
Instead, I go to the closet.
-----
The dress is black and simple and probably costs more than my car did. It fits perfectly, which means someone measured me while I wasn’t looking. The thought makes my skin crawl as I zip it up.
I find him in the dining room, the table reset with new plates, crystal glasses, and candles lit even though no one’s here.
“Sit.” He gestures to the same chair as before.
I sit, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. Trying to look calm even though my heart’s racing.
He circles the table slowly, like a shark. “Lesson one—you never speak unless spoken to directly. You answer questions with as few words as possible. You smile, but not too much. You drink, but never enough to lose control.”
“Sounds like you want a robot, not a person.”
He stops behind my chair. I can feel him there, too close, his presence like heat against my back.
“I want you to survive tomorrow night.” His voice is quieter now. “These people knew your father. Some of them probably knew what he did. And if they sense you’re weak, they’ll use it against me.”
I turn to look up at him. “Why would they—”
“Eyes forward.”
I snap my gaze back to the table, jaw clenching.
“Good.” He moves to his seat and sits with that infuriating grace. “Now. I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer appropriately. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
The words stick in my throat. “Yes… Sir?”
“Nathaniel is fine.” He picks up his wine glass and swirls it. “Tell me, Evie, what do you do for work?”
“I was a waitress. Before all this.”
“Wrong.” He sets the glass down hard enough that I flinch. “You were in school. Studying art history. You had to take a break due to family circumstances, but you plan to return.”
“But that’s not—”
“These people don’t need to know you waited tables to pay for your father’s mistakes. They need to see someone worth five hundred thousand dollars. Do you understand the difference?”
Heat floods my face. “You want me to lie.”
“I want you to play a part.” He leans back, studying me. “Tomorrow night, you’re not Evie Lawson, desperate enough to sell herself. You’re Evie Lawson, an unfortunate victim of circumstance whom I’m graciously helping. Can you do that?”
The patronizing tone makes me want to throw something. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Then prove it.” He stands and walks to my side of the table. “Stand up.”
I do, slowly, not sure what he’s planning.
“Pick up your wine glass.”
I reach for it, hand trembling slightly. Hate that he can see it shake.
“Now walk to me. Slowly. Like you’re crossing a room full of people watching your every move.”
This is insane. But I do it, taking careful steps, hyper-aware of how the dress moves and how loud my breathing sounds in this quiet room.
I’m three feet away when he speaks again.
“What are you thinking right now?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“In your head. Right this second. What are you thinking?”
“That I hate this.” The words come out before I can stop them. “That I hate you for making me do this. That my dad would be ashamed of what I’ve become.”
Something flickers across his face. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re angry. Use it.” He steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. “Angry looks like strength if you wear it right. Scared looks like weakness. Tomorrow night, be angry.”
We’re standing too close. I can smell that expensive cologne again and see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes. My pulse hammers in my throat.
“Now,” he says softly, “spill your wine on me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not going to—”
His hand moves fast, grabbing my wrist—the one holding the glass—and jerking it forward. Wine splashes across his white shirt, dark red spreading like blood.
I gasp, stumbling back. “Oh my God—”
But he’s laughing.
Actually laughing, low and dark, while wine drips down his chest. He releases my wrist, plucks at his ruined shirt.
“Accidents happen,” he says, still smiling that dangerous smile. “How you react is what matters. So tell me, Evie—what do you say when you spill wine on your host?”
My mind goes blank. “I’m sorry?”
“Wrong.” He unbuttons his shirt—oh God, he’s unbuttoning his shirt—and shrugs it off. “You don’t apologize like you’re begging forgiveness. You apologize like it’s a minor inconvenience. Try again.”
I can’t think. Can’t focus. Because he’s standing there in just his undershirt now, and I can see the lines of muscle beneath the fabric and the ink of a tattoo curling up his forearm that I didn’t know was there.
“I’m… sorry about that.”
“Better.” He tosses the ruined shirt over a chair. “But look at me when you say it. Own the moment. Don’t cower.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry about your shirt.”
“Much better.” He’s studying me again with that intense focus that makes me feel naked. “You might actually survive tomorrow after all.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter.
His smile widens. “There it is. That fire. Don’t lose it.”
-----
We practice for another hour. Questions and answers, walking and sitting, the right way to hold a glass, and the right way to smile without looking desperate or afraid. By the end, my feet ache and my head throbs, and I want to scream.
But I don’t break. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Enough,” he finally says. “Go to bed. Tomorrow starts early.”
I turn to leave, desperate to escape this room and his suffocating presence.
“Evie.”
I stop and don’t turn around.
“You did well tonight.”
The words sound like they cost him something. I don’t know what to do with that, so I just walk away.
-----
The next evening, I’m dressed in a different dress—deep blue this time, fitted—when Mrs. Chen comes to get me.
“They’re arriving,” is all she says.
My stomach knots as I follow her to the living room. Voices drift from somewhere—laughter, the clink of glasses. Normal party sounds that feel anything but normal.
Nathaniel stands near the windows, talking to a man in an expensive suit. He sees me, and something in his expression shifts. Softens, maybe, for just a second.
Then it’s gone, and he’s gesturing me over with one hand.
“Gentlemen, this is Evie.” His hand settles on the small of my back, possessive and warm through the thin fabric. “Evie, this is Marcus Chen and David Rothstein. Old friends.”
I smile the way he taught me. Not too bright. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Charming,” Marcus says, but his eyes are cold. Calculating. “Nathaniel didn’t mention he was seeing anyone.”
“It’s new,” Nathaniel says smoothly. “Very new.”
The lie sits between us, obvious to me, invisible to them.
More people arrive. Names I don’t catch, faces that blur together. I stay quiet, smile when appropriate, and sip wine slowly. Playing the part like he taught me.
Then a woman in red approaches, older, with sharp eyes and sharper jewelry.
“Well, well.” She looks me up and down. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
My smile freezes. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t you recognize me? It’s been years, of course, but—” She laughs, reaching out to touch my arm. “You were just a girl the last time I saw you. What was it, your thirteenth birthday? Your father threw that lovely party at the estate.”
Ice water floods my veins. “I think you have me confused with—”
“Vivienne, isn’t it?” She smiles wider. “Vivienne Lawson. Your father showed me pictures just before—well. Before everything happened.”
The room tilts. Vivienne. That was my name. My real name, before Dad changed it, before we moved, before everything fell apart.
I haven’t heard that name in ten years.
Nathaniel’s hand on my back turns to iron. “I think you’re mistaken, Diane.”
“Am I?” Diane looks between us, confusion flickering across her face. “But Jonathan always called his daughter Vivienne. I’m certain of it.”
“My name is Evie.” My voice sounds far away. “Just Evie.”
The party continues around us, but I can feel Nathaniel’s rage like heat from a furnace. His hand hasn’t moved from my back, but his grip is bruising now.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he says, voice deadly calm. “I need to speak with Evie privately.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just steers me away from Diane, through the crowd, and down the hallway. His fingers dig into my spine hard enough to leave marks.
We reach my room. He pushes me inside, follows, and slams the door.
Then he’s on me, crowding me back against the wall, both hands on either side of my head. Caging me in. His face is inches from mine, eyes blazing with something that might be fury or might be worse.
“Vivienne,” he says, testing the name. “That’s what she called you.”
“It’s nothing. It’s—”
“Don’t.” His voice drops to a growl. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
“I’m not lying. My name is Evie. It’s always been—”
“Why did your father tell everyone you were dead?”
The question punches the air from my lungs.
His eyes bore into mine, searching for something, finding answers I don’t even understand.
“Why, Evie?” He leans closer, and I can feel his breath on my face. “What the hell was he hiding?”
- Writer
