Saturday morning arrived clean and gray, the light through her window soft and milky against the lake. Elena had been awake for an hour already, lying still in the sheets, watching the sky brighten by degrees.
She hadn't slept well. The kiss kept surfacing—not the full memory, but the feel of it. The way his hand had cupped her jaw. The way she'd leaned in before he'd even finished closing the distance.
The way Victor had found them.
She pushed the blankets back and swung her legs out of bed. No use lying here. Today was the gala. Today was work.
Her files were already organized on the writing table—a week of research condensed into a leather folio, each piece cross-referenced, each artist's provenance checked. She'd worked until her eyes burned yesterday, burying herself in catalog numbers and exhibition histories. It had helped distract her enough. Mostly anyways.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and something warm—baked, maybe, or toasted. Marta was at the stove, her back to the door, and Presley was setting a place at the small breakfast table near the window.
"Good morning, Miss Rossi," Presley said. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." She slid into the chair he held for her. "Too much to think about."
Marta turned, spatula in hand. "You eat a proper breakfast before you go running off to whatever fancy thing you're doing today. No coffee-and-run business."
Elena almost smiled. "I wasn't going to run."
"You were thinking about it." Marta pointed the spatula at her. "I find you’re already picking up bad habits from the Master."
The coffee arrived in a ceramic mug, dark and steaming. Elena wrapped her hands around it, letting the warmth soak into her palms. "I have a lot to do today. Hair. Makeup. Making sure I don't embarrass Liam in front of half the city's art collectors."
Presley's expression didn't change. "I'm sure you'll exceed expectations, Miss Rossi."
She ate—eggs and toast and a small bowl of fruit she didn't really want but finished anyway—and then carried her coffee back upstairs. The clock in the hall read 8:47. She had time. She had all the time in the world, and somehow none of it felt like enough.
Her hair took the longest.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a curling iron in one hand, a small bottle of heat protectant in the other, and tried to remember the last time she'd put this much effort into her appearance. Probably her college graduation. Maybe her mother's anniversary dinner.
Not for a man. Not like this.
She worked in sections, pulling the iron through her long brown hair, letting it fall in soft waves that caught the light. The motion was methodical, almost meditative—twist, hold, release. Twist, hold, release. Her hair reached past her shoulder blades when it was straight, but the waves gave it volume, gave it movement.
By the time she finished, her arm ached, and the mirror showed someone she almost didn't recognize. Softer. Polished. Just like she belonged in a room full of people who spent thousands on a single painting.
Earrings next. She'd picked them out two days ago, a pair of small sapphire drops with delicate gold tails that caught the light. They weren't expensive by Liam's standards—he'd probably spend more on a tie clip—but they were hers. She'd bought them two years ago at a small jewelry booth at an art fair, and they'd always felt like a secret luxury. Today they would look wonderful with the dress.
She fastened them carefully, the little gems swinging against her neck, and turned her head to see how they caught the light. Good, no, perfect actually.
Makeup was next. She kept it lighter than she usually would—a foundation that matched her skin tone, a subtle contour that sharpened her cheekbones, and mascara that she applied in careful layers to make her green eyes stand out. She stepped back and examined the effect. The makeup accentuated without overwhelming. She looked like herself, only sharper.
The lipstick was the last step. She'd bought it specifically for today—a soft pink, lighter than what she usually wore, but the woman at the counter had said it would complement the dress. She twisted the tube up and applied it carefully, pressing her lips together to smooth it, then blotting once on a tissue.
She was ready.
The dress hung on the back of her closet door, a whisper of sapphire silk that seemed to glow even in the dim morning light.
She'd chosen it only by look almost a week ago. Now to hope it would meet the standards she expected for herself, as well as others.
She unzipped it carefully and stepped into it, the silk cool against her skin. The straps ran up and around the back of her neck, tying in a neat bow at the nape. The bodice was fitted, cupping her breasts and accentuating her waist, then flowing down over her hips in a smooth line. The skirt reached her ankles, with a single slit running up her right thigh that gave her room to walk, to move, to breathe, though it ran high.
She turned to face the mirror and stopped.
The woman looking back at her was beautiful. Not in a way she'd ever thought of herself before—not the careful, professional beauty she cultivated for meetings and galleries—but something else. Something that made her look like she belonged in one of the paintings herself.
She smoothed the fabric over her hips and adjusted the straps. The dress fit like it had been made for her. Which made sense; it probably had been. Mrs. Crane had taken her measurements the first day she came to the manor.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:48.
Her stomach tightened. Time to go.
The manor was quiet as she walked downstairs, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood. The grand hall opened before her, chandelier dark, the morning light filtering through tall windows and casting long rectangles of pale gold across the floor.
And there he was.
Liam stood near the bottom of the stairs, his back to the window, the light catching the edges of his silhouette. He wore that same blue suit—Elena wondered if he owned anything else. She could picture his closet full of identical blue suits.
His jaw was clean-shaven, the five o'clock shadow gone, and his short black hair was styled neatly, gelled up in front and top, clean along the sides.
He looked different. Not softer—he would never look soft—but polished, refined.
His eyes found her the moment she appeared at the top of the stairs.
She felt the weight of his gaze like a hand on her skin. He didn't look away. Didn't blink. Just watched her descend, step by step, his expression unreadable.
Her heart was loud in her ears. The kiss. The game room. The way his mouth had felt on hers, insistent and warm and sure. They hadn't spoken about it. Not once. He'd sent her away and she'd gone, and the next few days she'd thrown herself into research like the kiss had never happened.
But it had happened. And now he was looking at her, and she wondered if he too remembered every second of it.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, a careful three feet of space between them. "Good morning."
His eyes moved over her—slow, deliberate, from the waves in her hair to the sapphire drops at her ears to the dress that clung to every curve. When his gaze reached her face again, there was something in his expression she couldn't name. Not approval. Not hunger. Something quieter.
"Elena." His voice was low, controlled, the same baritone that made every word sound like a verdict. "You look..."
He paused. A single beat of silence that stretched.
"Ready."
She didn't know if that was what he'd meant to say. The pause had been long enough to hold something else—something he'd chosen not to speak.
"Thank you," she said. "I have the folio. All the research is organized by artist, with provenance notes on each piece I flagged. I also cross-referenced the auction catalog against recent market trends, so—"
"Elena."
She stopped.
His mouth curved—barely, a ghost of something that might have been amusement. "You don't need to sell me on your competence. I already know you're prepared."
She flushed. "I just—I want to make sure today goes smoothly. The gala is important. And I want to make sure you know how much this means to me."
His expression flickered. A fraction of a shift, quickly hidden. "What do you mean?"
“I know the art is important. You've done good work this week, Elena. I read your notes. You identified three pieces the auction house undervalued, and you flagged a potential forgery that their own experts missed."
She hadn't expected that. Praise from Liam Thorn was rarer than a clear night in the city. "You read my notes?"
"I read everything you put in front of me." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "You have good instincts. Today, I want you to trust them. Look at the art. Talk to the collectors. If you see something that doesn't fit—a wrong piece, anything that’s out of place—tell me."
"Okay," she said. "I'll trust my instincts."
He held her gaze for another beat, then turned toward the front door. "Then let's go."
Liam turned and opened the door, holding it for Elena.
The car was waiting outside—the sleek black sedan with tinted windows and a driver who opened the door before Liam could reach for it. The morning air was cool against her skin, carrying the smell of damp earth and the distant scent of the lake.
Liam gestured for her to enter first. She slid across the leather seat, the silk of her dress whispering against the upholstery, and he followed, settling beside her with the easy command of a man who owned everything he touched.
The door closed, sealing them in a silence that felt heavier than it should have.
The car pulled away from the manor, gravel crunching under the tires, and Elena watched the house shrink in the side mirror—gray stone, dark windows, the lake flashing silver in the distance. A few weeks ago she had arrived here terrified and desperate. Now she was leaving beside Liam Thorn, who had kissed her like it meant something and then said nothing at all.
She turned to face the road ahead. "How long until we get there?"
"Just under a couple of hours. Depending on traffic." Liam didn't look at her.
The city slid past the window in muted grays and golds—office towers, storefronts, the occasional flash of green where a park interrupted the concrete. Elena watched it all without really seeing it. The leather seat was warm beneath her thighs, the silk of her dress cool where it touched her skin, and beside her, Liam Thorn worked his phone with the focused efficiency of a man who never had enough hours.
She stole glances when she thought he wouldn't notice.
His jaw was set, his eyes scanning whatever message had just arrived. Thumb typing a response. Then another message. Then a pause where he stared at the screen as it had personally offended him.
He hadn't said a word since they'd pulled out of the manor drive.
Elena turned back to the window. The city was thinning out now, giving way to the highway. The sky stretched wide and pale above them, clouds gathering on the horizon like a promise of rain.
"Tell me about the gala," Liam said, breaking the silence.
"Tell you what about it?"
"Whatever you think I should know."
She considered the question. "It's the biggest contemporary art event in the region this year. About three hundred guests, most of them collectors, a handful of critics, and at least two museum curators who've been known to make offers on the spot. The auction is the centerpiece, but the real business happens during the cocktail hour—people making deals before the bids go public."
The highway gave way to city streets again—wider this time, lined with palm trees and buildings that gleamed like glass teeth. The architecture shifted as they approached the coast: older structures with wrought-iron balconies gave way to modern towers with sharp angles and reflective surfaces.
They were close now. Elena could smell the salt in the air through the car's ventilation system.
The hotel appeared like a monument to everything she'd never had. White stone, arched windows, a driveway lined with manicured hedges and a fountain at the center that sprayed water in perfect arcs. Valets in crisp uniforms stood at attention, and the doorman—a broad-shouldered man with silver at his temples—recognized the car before it had fully stopped.
The driver pulled up to the entrance. The door opened before Liam could reach for it.
He stepped out first, turning to offer her his hand.
She took it. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and the contact sent a brief current through her arm. She stepped onto the pavement, smoothing her dress as she straightened, and tried not to think about how many eyes were already on them.
The hotel lobby was cathedral-high, with a chandelier that caught the afternoon light and scattered it across the marble floor in a thousand fractured rainbows. Elena had been in nice buildings before—gallery openings in renovated warehouses, private viewings in penthouse apartments—but this was something else. This was old money, polished to a gleam.
Liam walked beside her, his hand finding the small of her back. Light. Guiding. Proprietary.
The reception desk was a long sweep of dark wood, and the woman behind it had the kind of polished poise that came from years of handling the very wealthy. She recognized Liam before he reached the counter.
"Mr. Thorn. Welcome back."
"Margaret." He inclined his head. "The room is ready?"
"Of course." She slid two keycards across the counter in a neat leather folio. "The room is ready, as requested. I've programmed both cards. If there's anything else you need, housekeeping is available around the clock for you, Sir."
"Thank you."
Margaret's gaze shifted to Elena. It was quick—professional—but Elena felt the weight of it. A quick inventory. The dress. The earrings. The man she was standing beside. Sizing her up for who she was with.
Margaret said nothing. She didn't need to. Her eyes said it all.
Liam took the folio and turned. Elena followed.
The elevator bank was at the far end of the lobby, set apart from the main traffic. Most of the elevators had floor numbers beside them—L, 1, 2, 3, 4—but the one at the very end had no buttons at all. Just a small black panel beside the door.
Liam swiped one of the keycards.
The reader beeped. The doors slid open.
Inside, the elevator was lined with dark wood and brass, a single panel of buttons on the wall. Liam pressed the one marked P.
Elena frowned. "Parking?"
"Penthouse."
"Oh." She felt stupid for asking. "That makes more sense."
The doors closed. The elevator began to rise.
The ascent was smooth, almost silent—just a faint hum beneath her feet. The numbers on the display ticked upward. 10. 20. 30. 40.
"This is a nice hotel," she said, because the silence was pressing in again.
"It's adequate."
"Adequate." She almost laughed. "Liam, the lobby has a chandelier that probably costs more than my old apartment building."
He didn't respond, but she caught the edge of his mouth moving. Almost a smile.
The elevator slowed. The display read 50.
The doors opened onto a private foyer.
The penthouse opened before her like a room from a dream.
The ceilings were high—fifteen feet at least—with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the ocean. The sunlight poured in from above, warm and golden, and the view—
Elena walked forward without realizing she'd moved.
The city spread out below her, a tapestry of glass and steel and green. Beyond it, the ocean stretched to the horizon, impossibly blue, with a line of white where the waves met the shore. She could see ships in the distance. A curve of coastline she didn't recognize. A sky big enough to drown in.
"Wow," she breathed.
Behind her, she heard Liam set down the folio.
The penthouse had two doors off the main living area—one on each side, probably bedrooms—and a kitchen that gleamed with stainless steel and marble. The furniture was modern, clean lines and neutral tones, with a single bold painting above the sofa: a geometric abstraction in red and gold that she recognized as a mid-career Venturi.
"Sheets," she said, without turning. "Venturi's Geometric Abstraction series. 2017. It was exhibited at the Basel fair that year."
"You recognize it."
"The palette is distinctive. He moved away from primary colors in 2019, shifted toward earth tones. This piece is from his most valuable period."
Silence.
She turned.
Liam was watching her with an expression she couldn't read. Not quite approval. Not quite surprise. Something in between.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing." He moved past her, toward the windows. "You're right. It's a 2017 Venturi. I bought it two years ago."
"From the Ryland collection?"
He raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"
"The Ryland collection had three Venturis from that series. Two were sold at auction. The third went private." She shrugged. "I follow the provenance trails. It's part of the job."
"Part of your job," he repeated.
"My job is what I make it."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he turned back to the window.
The gala didn't start for a few hours. She had time to settle, to review her notes, to prepare herself for a room full of people who would judge her before she opened her mouth.
"You can take the room on the left," Liam said. "There's a closet and a private bathroom. If you need anything else, the house line is programmed into the phone."
"Thank you."
She gathered the folio from the table where she'd set it down and walked toward the left door. Her heels were silent on the thick carpet.
Elena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "The gala starts at seven. I'll be ready by six."
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
The room was smaller than the main living area, but the view was just as stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A king bed with white linens. A writing desk near the window that she immediately claimed for her folio.
She set the folder down, then stood at the window, watching the ocean turn silver under the afternoon light.
Her heart was still beating too fast.
She pressed her palm against the glass, let the cool surface ground her, and tried to remember when she'd started wanting him to finish his sentences.
The bathroom mirror caught the soft overhead light, casting her reflection in warm gold. Elena leaned forward, checking her lipstick one last time, pressing her lips together to smooth the soft pink. The sapphire drops at her ears caught the movement, swinging gently.
She looked the same as she had an hour ago. But she felt different. Ready. Or as ready as she'd ever be.
She turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the bedroom. The folio was waiting on the writing desk, leather-bound and full of her notes. She picked it up, checked that her phone was in the small clutch she'd brought—a silver thing she'd bought years ago for a cousin's wedding—and took one last look at the ocean through the window.
The sun was lower now, the water turned to liquid copper. It would set before the gala was over. She'd miss it from inside a ballroom full of strangers.
She walked to the door and opened it.
The main area of the penthouse was dimmer than she'd left it, the sun dropping behind the buildings across the way. The geometric Venturi painting was a slash of red and gold on the wall, catching the last of the light.
And there he was.
Liam sat on the low sofa near the windows, his back to the view, his body angled toward the door like he'd been waiting. A glass of something amber rested on the table beside him, untouched.
He looked up when she stepped out.
His gaze traveled over her—slow, deliberate, the same inventory he'd taken at the bottom of the stairs this morning. The waves in her hair. The sapphire at her ears. The dress that hugged her body and fell in a clean line to her ankles. The slit that showed a flash of thigh when she walked.
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. A softening at the edges. A warmth that wasn't there a moment before.
"Good," he said simply, and stood.
One word. It meant everything.
He smoothed his jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and walked toward her. His cologne reached her before he did—something clean and dark, with a hint of cedar. He stopped a foot away, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way the evening light caught the blue in his irises.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
He held the door for her.
The elevator ride down was silent, but it wasn't the same heavy silence from this morning. It was the quiet of two people who had already said what mattered. Or who knew the next words would come when they were needed.
Elena watched the floor numbers descend. 40. 30. 20. The lobby was on L. She could hear the faint hum of the cable, the click of the mechanism as it passed each floor.
"You have the keycards?" she asked.
Liam's mouth twitched. "Yes."
"Good. I don't want to be locked out of a penthouse in this dress."
There was a beat of silence. And then, almost imperceptibly, he laughed.
It was nothing—a quiet exhale, a ghost of sound. But it was real. She'd heard him laugh before, with Lisa, but never like this. Never just for her.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto the lobby.
The ballroom was on the ground floor, down a wide corridor lined with marble columns and tasteful art—prints, mostly, by local artists whose work Elena recognized. She cataloged them automatically as they walked: a seascape by Lin, an abstract in muted greens by Okonkwo, a black-and-white photograph of the city skyline at dawn.
Guests were already gathering near the entrance. Women in gowns that probably cost more than Elena's entire wardrobe. Men in suits that fit like they'd been sewn onto their bodies. A low murmur of conversation, punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses.
The doorkeeper stood at the entrance to the ballroom, a tall man in a black suit with a tablet in his hands. He nodded as Liam approached.
"Mr. Thorn. Welcome."
Liam produced a pair of invitation cards from his inner pocket. The doorkeeper scanned them both, then stepped aside.
"Enjoy the evening, sir."
The doors opened.
Elena had been to galas before. Small ones. Gallery openings, charity auctions, private viewings in rooms that held fifty people and a single bar. But this—this was different.
The ballroom was enormous. Crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, casting a warm glow over the crowd. Long tables lined the walls, draped in white linen, each one displaying a piece from the auction. Art lovers and collectors gathered around them, studying catalogues, pointing out details, making notes. A string quartet played near the far end, the music weaving through the noise like a thread of gold.
And everywhere—everywhere—people.
Elena felt the weight of their attention as she stepped into the room. A few heads turned. Eyes tracked her. This was a woman they didn't recognize, on the arm of a man they all knew.
She lifted her chin. She was Elena Rossi. She knew more about every piece in this room than most of the people here. She belonged.
Liam's hand found the small of her back again, light and steady. "Breathe," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
She breathed.
They moved into the crowd.
Liam navigated the room with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times. He nodded to familiar faces, exchanged brief greetings, accepted a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to Elena before taking one for himself.
She took a sip. The bubbles fizzed against her tongue. She let the familiar ritual ground her: the weight of the glass, the chill of the liquid, the low hum of conversation around her.
They passed a Rothko that made her pause. A de Kooning that had been authenticated only last year. A single Warhol that looked almost out of place among the abstract expressionists, but that was probably the point.
And then she saw him.
He was standing near the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his body angled toward a woman in a red dress. Light brown hair, cut short. Hazel eyes that caught the chandelier's glow. A tailored suit with a pocket square that matched his tie. He was listening to the woman with an attentive expression, leaning in slightly, nodding at whatever she was saying.
Sebastian Hart.
Elena's step faltered. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Liam to notice.
His hand tightened at the small of her back. "You see him."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said.
"Good. Keep him in sight. Let him come to us."
She nodded, grateful for the direction. She didn't trust herself to speak without her voice shaking.
Sebastian laughed at something the woman said, touched her arm—brief, polite—and then his gaze drifted.
It found Elena like a compass finding north.
He didn't start. Didn't show surprise. But his eyes locked onto hers, and something flickered in them. Recognition. Interest.
He said something to the woman—a few words, a smile—and she nodded and drifted away. Sebastian set his glass down on the bar and began walking toward them.
Elena's pulse quickened.
He moved through the crowd with the ease of a man who owned every room he entered—not through power, the way Liam did, but through charm. He smiled at people as he passed, lifted a hand in greeting, paused just long enough to make someone feel seen. By the time he reached them, the entire social arc of the room seemed to bend in his direction.
"Elena," he said, and the way he said it—warm, intimate, like they were old friends—made her skin prickle.
"Sebastian." She kept her voice level. "It's good to see you again."
His smile widened. "Is it? I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"You're not easy to forget."
He laughed at that, a low, genuine sound. "I'll take that as a compliment."
His gaze moved to Liam, and something shifted in his expression. Not hostility. Wariness, maybe. Or respect.
"Liam. I didn't expect to see you here."
Liam's voice was flat. Controlled. "I could say the same."
"Well, I'm happy you came." Sebastian's smile didn't waver. He turned back to Elena, and his attention narrowed, focused, like they were the only two people in the room. "You look stunning, by the way. That color suits you. Brings out your eyes."
Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks. She didn't want it to. She didn't want him to see that he could affect her.
"Thank you," she said. "You look well."
"I am well. Business is good." He took a sip of his drink—she hadn't noticed he'd picked up a fresh glass from the bar. "I heard you've been working with Liam now. Consulting on his collection."
"Something like that."
"I always knew you had an eye for art. The way you talked about that Caillebotte in your thesis—I've never forgotten it."
Elena blinked. "You read my thesis?"
"I read everything I could find about you, after we met." His smile turned rueful. "I was hoping you'd reach out. You never did."
There was something in his voice—a thread of genuine disappointment that made her chest tighten. She remembered their first meeting. The way he'd talked to her like she was the most interesting person in the room. The way he'd leaned in when she spoke, his eyes never leaving hers.
She'd thought it was just his charm. The natural warmth of a man who made everyone feel special.
Now she wasn't so sure.
"I've been busy," she said.
"I can see that." His gaze flicked to Liam, then back. A quick assessment. He didn't say anything about it, but he didn't need to. Everything was in that glance.
Liam's hand shifted at her back—a subtle pressure, a reminder that he was there. "We should circulate," he said. "There are collectors I need to speak with."
"Of course." Sebastian raised his glass in a small salute. "Elena. I hope we can talk more tonight. There's a piece in the auction I'd love to hear your opinion on."
"Which piece?"
"The Caravaggio study. I'm told it's a student work, but I have my doubts."
Elena's interest sharpened. "The chiaroscuro is too refined for a student. But the provenance is messy—it passed through three private collections in the last decade, which always raises questions."
Sebastian's smile widened. "See?" he said, to Liam, as if including him in a private joke. "This is why I wanted her working for me."
Liam's expression didn't change. "She's not available."
"Pity." Sebastian held Elena's gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head and melted back into the crowd.
Elena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Beside her, Liam was very still.
"I didn't know he was going to be here," she said quietly. "I mean—I knew he was on the guest list, but I didn't think—"
"It's fine."
"Is it?"
Liam turned to look at her. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. Assessing. "You handled it well."
"I didn't handle anything. He talked to me. I responded."
"You handled it well." He said it again, firmer this time, like he was closing the subject. "Now. Tell me about the Caravaggio study."
She blinked. "What?"
"You had a theory about it. I want to hear it."
She stared at him for a moment, trying to read his angle. But he looked genuinely curious, his head tilted slightly, his attention fully on her.
"The brushwork is wrong for a student," she said slowly. "Students don't apply paint that confidently. But the canvas is from the period, and the subject matches Caravaggio's early themes. My theory is it's a collaborative work—Caravaggio blocked out the composition, and a student filled in the details. The student did the drapery and the background. Caravaggio did the face and the hands."
Liam listened without interrupting. When she finished, he nodded slowly. "And the provenance gaps?"
"Probably intentional. Someone wanted to bury the student connection. A Caravaggio is worth more than a Caravaggio-and-studio. If it's attributed to him alone, the value triples."
"And if it's a full forgery?"
"Then someone spent a lot of money on a very convincing fake, and the auction house should be embarrassed."
His mouth curved. "Good instincts."
She flushed, warmth spreading through her chest. "Thank you."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned toward the crowd. "Come on. There's a woman from the Metropolitan who wants to meet you."
Elena followed, her heart lighter than it had been all evening.
The gala folded around them—conversation, champagne, the low hum of money and taste and carefully cultivated reputation. Elena met curators and collectors, answered questions about provenance and brushwork, and watched Liam work the room with the precision of a surgeon.
But every time she glanced across the ballroom, she saw Sebastian.
He was always looking back.