Chapter 7
The morning sun reflected harshly off the glass skyscrapers of Manhattan.
Evelyn rolled her wheelchair into the formal dining room.
Silas was already seated at the head of the long table, dressed in an immaculate navy suit.
He was reading the Wall Street Journal.
"Good morning," Evelyn said stiffly.
Silas lowered the newspaper. He gave her a brief nod.
The silence between them was suffocating.
Carson approached silently and placed a plate of Eggs Benedict and a cup of black coffee in front of Evelyn.
Silas reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.
He pulled out a heavy, matte-black card made of anodized titanium.
He slid the American Express Centurion Card across the polished mahogany table. It stopped right next to Evelyn's coffee cup.
"Our marriage was arranged too quickly," Silas said, his voice completely flat. "We didn't have time to purchase a wedding ring."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"Take this. It has no limit. Buy whatever ring you want. Buy whatever else you want."
Evelyn stared at the black card.
She raised an eyebrow. She didn't push it back.
She reached out, her index finger tapping the metal surface once, before she picked it up.
"Thanks," she said coolly.
Silas checked his Patek Philippe watch. He stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked out to his waiting car.
The moment the front door clicked shut, Evelyn pulled out her phone.
She dialed Harper's number.
"Get dressed," Evelyn said the second Harper answered. "We are going to slaughter Fifth Avenue today."
Harper screamed with delight through the speaker.
At 1:00 PM, the Thorne family Maybach dropped them off in front of the luxury boutiques.
Evelyn sat in her wheelchair, pushed by Harper. She radiated an aura of absolute authority.
They hit Chanel and Dior first.
Evelyn pointed at racks of haute couture. She didn't look at price tags.
She handed the black card to the stunned sales associates, who immediately began scrambling to assist her, without blinking.
Within an hour, two massive bodyguards were struggling to carry the mountain of shopping bags.
Finally, they arrived at the global flagship store of Harry Winston.
The doorman saw the bodyguards and the Maybach. He practically ripped the heavy glass doors open.
The boutique manager, a slick man named Mr. Davis, rushed forward.
"Mrs. Thorne! Welcome. Please, right this way to our VIP suite."
The VIP room was a sanctuary of velvet and gold.
Crystal flutes of vintage champagne and a silver tray of Beluga caviar were waiting for them.
Mr. Davis brought out a velvet tray carrying three massive diamond rings.
"These are our finest five-carat pieces, madam," he said proudly.
Evelyn picked up a cushion-cut diamond. She held it up to the specialized lighting.
She didn't smile.
"The table percentage is slightly off," Evelyn said, her voice clinical. "And there is a microscopic feather inclusion near the girdle. It disrupts the light return."
Mr. Davis started sweating immediately.
He realized instantly that the woman in the wheelchair was not an ignorant country girl. She was an apex connoisseur.
Evelyn tossed the multi-million dollar ring back onto the tray like it was a piece of plastic.
"These are mediocre," Evelyn stated. "Silas Thorne's wife will not wear something I can find in a mall. Go to your vault. Bring me something real."
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