The Revelation​

Two hours later, Evelyn sat stiffly in a taxi, her entire body numb.

The hotel manager had been apologetic but firm: Suite 5203 had been booked under a corporate account—Blackwood Holdings.

Alexander Blackwood.

The Devil of Wall Street.

A man so ruthless, even Adrian spoke his name with caution.

And she had…

She squeezed her eyes shut.

The taxi pulled up to her apartment. She barely made it inside before collapsing against the door, silent tears streaming down her face.

Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Her stomach lurched as she opened the text.

You left something behind.

Attached was a photo of a pearl earring on a nightstand.

Hers.

Before she could react, another message appeared.

I’ll be in touch, little butterfly.

Her blood turned to ice.

Because there, on her shoulder in the mirror, was the tattoo she had gotten at eighteen—a delicate butterfly, wings outstretched.

He knew.

Somehow, he knew.

And this wasn’t over.