“Misha, who is that?” Stewart asks, his voice timorous. Stewart is pointing at her, blinking, unsure.

She’s about to snap at him, because he’d talked to her not an hour ago, when she realizes: he’s not wearing his glasses. He looks at Misha, then at Evie, with owl eyes, unfocused.

Evie prepares to reintroduce herself to Stewart, or indeed introduce herself properly for the first time, when she feels a warm, muscled arm settle itself over her shoulders. Misha smiles at Stewart, easy and relaxed. The tangible feeling of menace emanating from Misha a moment ago has evaporated, leaving nothing but the society pretty-boy. Evie feels hysterical laughter start to bubble up in her, standing here in a museum access corridor, hanging out with Misha Meserov, a famous fashion designer, and two unconscious security guards. Like they’re friends.

Then Misha ruins it. “Stewart, this is Miss Cross. She works for me,” he says.

“What?” Evie hisses, fluffing up like an angry cat as she wiggles out from under his arm.

“Oh. Hello,” Stewart says, then squints at her. “I say, weren’t you also working at the bar? You were right about those strawberry things. Lethal.” Then he points at her champagne bottle. “That got any left in it?”

Evie tips it upside down. “Sorry.” Then she turns and glares at Misha. “I don’t—” she begins. But Misha rolls his eyes and jots something on the back of a business card. He extends it to Evie between two long fingers. “Give this to Abi,” he says.

She looks down at the card. It’s pale blue, with M.A. Meserov and a phone number engraved in a simple copperplate. Above his name is scrawled, in handwriting so elegant as to seem old-fashioned: I changed my mind. Hire her.—M.

Evie stares at the writing in shock. It is her literal golden ticket. She won; all she has to do is reach out and take it and she can stay in New York. Could it be that easy? In one casual, offhand gesture from a near-stranger, all of her dramas are laid to rest? She could give Claudia everything she owes her. She could pay off her credit card, get back on track with her student loans…

… She could get the proof she needs to sell a feature to Nicole.

But, even though something in her furiously resents the way Misha can just… hand her a job, like it’s no big deal to him, she also doesn’t feel right taking it, knowing she plans to betray him. She’s not that duplicitous. And he’s…

… He’s tilting his head at her, like a confused puppy. “You are… refusing my number?” he murmurs in bemused shock, like this is the first time it’s ever happened to him. It probably is.

His face falls as Evie still makes no move towards the card. “Oh. You are.”

She could always bail out of her meeting with Nicole. But if, as she increasingly suspects, Stewart’s husband gave him that black eye, she feels it’s her journalistic duty to bury Greg Pickford. She can decide how much to reveal about Misha later. She can make it all work out, somehow.

Evie finds she’s grinning as she reaches out, and takes the card at last. “No, sorry, I just… It’s nothing,” she says. “I’ll brush up on my…” Evie presses her lips together and swings the empty bottle of Krug she’s still clutching.

A genuine smile spreads across Misha’s face, and he looks so young, then, carefree and happy. “Ah, well, hopefully we won’t have to draw on those skills again. But thank you, all the same.” He turns and slings on his jacket, then slips an arm around Stewart’s waist. “Goodnight, Miss Cross,” he says, and the bastard has the nerve to wink at her. “See you Monday. 9 a.m.”

“Evie,” she says quietly, to his retreating back. “Call me Evie.”