Read Chapter 18: The Widow's Lie

The courtyard of the Hôtel de Valois blazed with lantern light, the gravel paths crowded with silk and evening suits. A string quartet played something tasteful and French in the corner, and servants moved through the guests with champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. Evie had worn her best dress—deep green velvet, a hand-me-down from a singer at the Folies who’d sworn it brought luck—and she’d let Héloïse pin her hair up in a style that made her neck look long and elegant.

Julien stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, introducing her as "Mademoiselle Hart" to a parade of aunts and cousins whose names she forgot the instant they were spoken. His mother, the Comtesse de Valois, had taken one look at Evie’s dress and smiled with the precision of a scalpel.

"American," she’d said, as if it were a diagnosis.

Evie had smiled back. "Yes, Madame."

She’d told herself she could do this. One evening. Smile, nod, don’t let them see the cracks. Tomorrow she’d meet the baron, and she’d have answers, and none of this would matter.

"A widow," the Comtesse repeated later, when a round-faced woman with pearls like egg yolks asked how Evie had come to Paris alone. "Such a tragedy. So young."

Evie pressed her hand to her collarbone, where a modest brooch—borrowed from Héloïse—sat over her heart. "My husband died of influenza. Two years ago now. I found I couldn’t bear to stay in New York without him."

"That’s why you sing," the woman said, eyes glittering with the romance of it. "To honor his memory."

"Yes," Evie said. "Something like that."

It had felt easy, the lie. It had felt like nothing at all. She’d practiced it in the mirror a dozen times, learned to soften her voice, to look away when she said the words, as if grief were something one didn’t display in public. In New York, the story had been different—she’d been a singer, a nobody, a girl with a voice and a scandal chasing her out of town. In Paris, she’d needed armor. A widow was respectable. A widow was allowed to be alone, allowed to work, allowed to stand beside a man like Julien without the whispers turning cruel.

She was reaching for a glass of champagne when the voice cut through the murmur of conversation like a knife through silk.

"Evie Hart? *Evelyn* Hart?"

Evie’s hand froze midair. She turned.

The woman approaching was American—obviously so, in the way she clutched her wrap and scanned the crowd with the aggressive friendliness of a tourist who’d paid good money to be impressed. She was perhaps fifty, with dyed blonde hair and a fur stole despite the warmth of the evening. Her face lit up as she closed the distance.

"I thought I recognized you! Oh, I *knew* it was you. Myrtle Jenkins—you don’t remember me, of course, but I saw you sing at the Alhambra in New York, two years ago this spring. You were absolutely *magnificent*."

The courtyard seemed to shudder. Evie could feel the weight of eyes turning toward her, drawn by the sharp, excited cadence of the woman’s voice.

"Thank you," Evie managed. "That’s very kind—"

"Oh, but I heard the most *dreadful* news about your husband! To lose him so soon after your marriage—and so tragically." Myrtle pressed a gloved hand to her chest. "I said to my husband, I said, 'That poor girl, left all alone in the world.' We were at the church, you know. My sister’s girl married into the Van Pelts—well, I expect you know the family."

The words were unwinding like thread from a spool, and Evie couldn’t see where to cut them.

"I’m sorry," Evie said, "I don’t—"

"Of course you don’t remember—it was such a crowded wedding. But I do remember *you*. So brave, to go onstage after everything that happened with that dreadful business in the papers." Myrtle leaned in, lowering her voice in a way that carried twice as far. "The *scandal*—your poor husband’s debts, and that awful talk about the milliner’s daughter—"

The courtyard went very quiet.

Evie felt the blood drain from her face. Somewhere behind her, she heard Julien say, "I think there’s been a mistake—"

"A mistake?" Myrtle’s eyes went wide, her smile flickering with pleasure at the drama she’d stumbled into. "Oh, no. I’m sure it’s her. I never forget a face. Evelyn Hart, the singer—married Marcus Webb for his money, everyone said, and then there was all that nastiness about the girl who—"

"*Enough*."

The voice cut through like a blade. The Comtesse de Valois stepped forward, face pale beneath its powder, eyes fixed on Evie with something colder than anger.

"A widow," she said softly. "How interesting."

"Madame, I can explain—"

"You *lied*." The word landed like a slap. The Comtesse didn’t raise her voice—she didn’t need to. The entire courtyard had gone silent, frozen mid-gesture, champagne glasses suspended in air. "To my son. To my family. In my home." She turned to Julien, whose face was ashen. "You brought this *creature* here. Into my house. You told me she was a respectable woman, a widow of good standing, and she is—what? A common singer who ran from a scandal in her own country?"

"Maman—"

"Don’t. Don’t defend her." The Comtesse’s voice trembled with a fury that made Evie’s knees weak. "This woman has made a fool of you. She has made a fool of all of us. She is a gold digger, a liar, a—"

"*Stop it*." Evie’s voice cracked as she found it. She turned to face the Comtesse, then the crowd—all those aristocratic faces, watching her like she was a cockroach that had crawled onto their chandelier. "You’re right. I lied. I’m not a widow. I’ve never been married."

A collective intake of breath.

"But I didn’t come here to deceive anyone. I came because—" She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say *because I love your son*, not with Myrtle Jenkins smirking and the Comtesse’s eyes burning holes in her and the weight of a hundred judgments pressing down on her shoulders.

"It doesn’t matter," she said instead. "What I came for. It clearly isn’t wanted."

She turned to flee. She didn’t let herself look at Julien. If she looked at him, she’d see the doubt, the hurt, the terrible understanding dawning that the woman he’d confessed his love to wasn’t who she’d claimed to be. And she couldn’t bear that. Not tonight.

The courtyard gates crashed shut behind her, and the sound was like a door slamming on everything she’d let herself hope for.