But she's right.
That's exactly what I'm asking for.
"I need someone who can exist in my life without destabilizing it," I say quietly. "And who doesn't require me to perform emotions I don't have access to. Not since Catherine died."
Evelyn leans forward slightly, her gaze sharpening.
"You're speaking in theory," she says. "I need to know if you're capable of specificity."
I bristle despite myself.
"I don't intend to audition candidates like I'm hiring staff."
"I wouldn't expect you to," she replies calmly. "But you're not describing a stranger. You're describing someone who already has familiarity. Someone who understands your rhythms. Your child. Your tolerances."
She pauses, letting the words settle.
"Someone who won't be seduced by your money because they're already past that threshold."
Lindsay laughing with Henry flashes unbidden in my mind.
The way she crouched to meet him at eye level. The way his face lit up. The way she listened like his stories mattered, not because she was paid to care, but because she genuinely did.
I don't say her name.
Instead, I nod.
Once.
Evelyn's gaze doesn't waver.
"Then you already have someone in mind."
The silence stretches between us—heavy, unavoidable.
I could deflect. Redirect. Claim I'm still evaluating options.
But lying here feels pointless.
"I might," I admit finally.
The words feel heavier than I expect.
"But that doesn't mean it's appropriate."
Evelyn doesn't pounce on the admission.
She lets the moment breathe, watching me with the same calm intensity she's maintained since I walked in.
"Appropriateness," she says, "is something we evaluate. Not assume."
I exhale slowly, aware I've already crossed a line I can't uncross.
"Lindsay Smith," I say. The name feels strange in my mouth—not because it's unfamiliar, but because I'm contextualizing it differently now. "She worked for me until recently. She no longer does."
Evelyn's expression shifts—recognition, maybe. Or calculation.
"She's competent," I continue. "Ethical. Discreet. She understands my work, my schedule, my—" I stop, recalibrating. "My son trusts her."
