Sebastian didn't look up until Liam was three feet from the table. Then his eyes lifted, and that smooth, knowing smile spread across his face. "Liam. I was wondering when you'd find your way over."
"May I sit?"
The question was polite, but it wasn't a request. Sebastian gestured to the empty chair across from him, the motion easy, unhurried. "Please."
Liam pulled out the chair and sat. The table was small, intimate, the kind of spot that let you see the whole room without being seen yourself. Smart placement. Indication that showed Sebastian Hart understood the value of positioning.
"You're not mingling," Liam observed.
"Neither are you." Sebastian picked up his champagne glass, swirling the liquid once before setting it down untouched. "Though I suppose you're on the clock. Art consultant in tow, auction lots to evaluate." He tilted his head. "Very professional of you."
Liam let the comment hang. He picked up a napkin, folded it once, set it down. "I need to ask you something."
Sebastian's smile sharpened at the edges. "I assumed you didn't come here for the canapés."
"The Eros," Liam said the word flatly, watching Sebastian's face for the micro-shift, the tell. "A shipment logged for your club was stolen. Pure batch. Off-the-books warehouse."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed, his voice carrying a note of confusion. "Was this my batch?"
The question hung between them, and for a moment, Liam studied the other man's face. Sebastian's brow was furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line — not the practiced concern of a guilty man caught off guard, but the real irritation of someone who'd just learned something was wrong with his business.
"It was logged for the Velvet Rope," Liam said.
Sebastian set down his champagne glass with a quiet clink. "I've been expecting that shipment any day now. It never arrived." His voice was flat, controlled, but something sharp crept in at the edges. "I assumed there was a delay. Supply chain issues, a misroute, someone at Valmont dragging their feet." He met Liam's eyes directly. "Not that it had been lifted."
"You're telling me you didn't know."
"I'm telling you I didn't know." Sebastian leaned forward, his elbows resting on the tablecloth. His voice dropped, losing its smooth veneer. "Why would I steal my own shipment, Liam? Walk me through the logic there."
Liam held his gaze. "Someone pays you more than you're making on the floor, you reroute the product, sell it private, claim it was lost. It's not complicated."
Sebastian let out a short, humorless laugh. "You think I'd burn a relationship with both you and the Valmonts for one payday? The Eros I move through the Velvet Rope brings in more than enough. It's consistent, it's clean, and it keeps my high-end clients coming back every weekend." He shook his head slowly. "I'm not stupid enough to kill a golden goose for a single egg."
The words landed with the weight of a man who believed what he was saying. Liam studied him — the set of his shoulders, the steadiness of his hands, the way his eyes held contact instead of flickering to an exit. There was no sweat at his temples, no twitch in his jaw. Nothing that said liar.
"Then who?" Liam asked.
"I don't know." Sebastian's voice was quiet, frustrated. "But I want to find out as much as you do. That shipment was expensive. And if someone's hitting shipments tied to my name, that's a problem for me, not just for you."
Liam sat back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. The map in his study redrew itself again — the warehouse, the club, the gala. Sebastian Hart, genuine and frustrated, sitting across from him with nothing to hide and everything to lose.
He had been so certain. The timing, the connection, the shipment logged for Hart's club. It had all fit too neatly, and that was the problem — it fit too neatly. Someone had wanted it to look like Sebastian. Someone had wanted Liam focused on the wrong target.
"You have enemies," Liam said. It wasn't a question.
Sebastian's smile thinned. "Everyone in this city has enemies when they are connected to you." He picked up his glass, took a small sip this time, then set it down again. “I have no idea who could have done this. I do my best not to make enemies I don't need.”
Liam's jaw tightened. The words echoed what Victor had said two nights ago. Professional extraction. No forced entry. Inside knowledge.
"I'll help however I can on my end," Sebastian said. "I don't like people stealing from me, even if the product hadn't reached my door yet." He paused, his eyes sharpening. "And Liam?"
Liam met his gaze.
"Next time you want to interrogate me, buy me a drink first." Sebastian's smile returned, thin and humorless. "It's polite."
Liam stood, adjusting his cuff. "I'll keep that in mind."
Liam had already taken a half-step when Sebastian's voice cut through the clatter of the gala. "One more thing."
He stopped. Looking back.
Sebastian hadn't moved. Still seated, elbows on the tablecloth, fingers laced together like a man settling in for a longer conversation. "Elena." He said her name carefully, like he was tasting it. "She's genuinely interested in the work, isn't she? Not just the price tags."
Liam's jaw tightened. "She's qualified."
"I’m sure she is, but that's not what I asked." Sebastian's smile returned, softer this time, almost wistful. “I asked whether you knew she loves it.”
Liam opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came immediately. Because the truth was uncomfortable.
He knew Elena was skilled. He knew she was intelligent. He knew she could identify value hidden beneath layers of dust and history.
But love?
He had never considered asking what she felt when she looked at something.
"I noticed her at that gallery opening six months ago. She spent twenty minutes in front of a single Rothko. Not reading the placard. Just — looking. Most people glance, take a picture, move on. She stayed." He shook his head slowly. "It's rare. Someone who cares about the art, not the investment. Most consultants can tell you what a painting is worth." He lifted his champagne glass, letting the silence settle before adding, "Very few forget what time it is while looking at one."
Liam had spent months watching Elena as a responsibility. A complication. A variable he had needed to account for. He had noticed her intelligence. Her stubbornness. Her ability to challenge him. But he couldn't remember the last time he had stopped to consider what happened when she wasn't working for him.
Liam said nothing. The silence stretched between them, filled by the distant murmur of the crowd and the clink of glasses.
Liam turned without another word, leaving Sebastian Hart's gaze on his back like a brand. The crowd parted around him as he moved through the gala, his stride measured, his expression unreadable. He didn't look back. There was nothing left to say to a man who'd just handed him a puzzle piece that didn't fit the picture he'd built.
He found her at the far end of the exhibition hall, tucked between two towering columns where the light was softer and the crowd thinner. Elena stood motionless before a large canvas, a small leather notebook open in one hand, a pen hovering over the page without touching it. She hadn't noticed him yet. Her head was tilted slightly, her green eyes tracing the brushstrokes with a focus that seemed to shut out the rest of the gala entirely.
Liam stopped a few feet back, letting himself watch. Her lips were slightly parted, her brow faintly furrowed, and she made a small note in the margin of her notebook — not a price or a catalog number, but an observation. Something she had seen.
Her eyes moved across the canvas in deliberate paths, lingering on one corner before returning to the center. She leaned in slightly, studying the texture of the paint where the artist's brush had caught the light, then stepped back again, tilting her head as though the distance changed the conversation.
Liam had seen her evaluate paintings before. He'd assumed she was cataloging provenance, estimating value, calculating resale. Watching her now, he realized she'd barely written a word in the last several minutes.
Sebastian's words echoed in his mind: Most consultants can tell you what a painting is worth. Very few forget what time it is while looking at one.
She wasn't judging it. She was listening to it. Trying to understand what the creator had hidden inside the canvas.
For another moment, Liam simply watched. Then, almost reluctantly, he stepped forward.
"What do you think?"
Her head came up at his voice, her eyes blinking back from wherever the painting had taken her. For a moment she seemed almost surprised to see him, like she'd forgotten where she was. Then her composure settled back into place, and she glanced down at her notes before meeting his gaze.
Elena blinked, the painting's pull releasing her like a surface breaking. Liam stood a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching her with an intensity that made her suddenly aware of how long she'd been standing there.
"I—" She glanced down at her notebook, at the half-finished sentence about the artist's use of negative space. "It's interesting. The piece, I mean."
She was flustered. She could hear it in her own voice, the way it pitched slightly higher than usual.
"The composition is unusual for this period," she said, turning back to the canvas, using the motion to steady herself. "Most of his early work leans heavily on geometric structure—rigid lines, deliberate framing. But this one…" She gestured with her pen, tracing the air where the paint curved. "He's breaking his own rules. There's a looseness here that doesn't appear in his catalog until three years later. Which means either this is misdated, or he was experimenting earlier than the critics credit him for."
She was rambling. She could feel the words spilling out, filling the silence because she didn't know what else to do with the space between them. Her hand moved, illustrating a point he hadn't asked for.
"The pigment density suggests he layered the oil differently than his documented technique—you can see it in the brushwork, here, where the light catches—"
She stopped. Took a breath. Closed her mouth.
"Sorry," she said, her cheeks warming. "I tend to—when I find something that doesn't match the expected pattern, I get carried away."
She flipped back a few pages in her notebook, found the catalog entry she'd transcribed earlier, and summarized in a cleaner voice: "The piece is listed as 2019, but the stylistic markers suggest 2021 or afterward. If it's truly from the earlier date, it's a significant outlier that could increase long-term value. If it's misdated, the current estimate is roughly forty percent below what it would command at a specialized auction."
She looked up at him, meeting his gaze directly now that she had facts to anchor herself.
"Your call on whether that's worth flagging to the auction house tonight or saving for a follow-up bid."
Liam was silent for a moment. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had shifted—a softening at the edges, barely perceptible, like frost beginning to thin.
"Perfect," he said.
The word landed in her chest and stayed there, warm and unexpected.
He opened his mouth to continue, his weight shifting forward slightly, but before the sound could form, a voice cut through the ambient noise of the gala.
"Elena."
She looked to see Sebastian Hart approaching from the side, his movements unhurried, his smile already in place. He'd shed his jacket at some point, the rolled sleeves of his white shirt revealing forearms that spoke of someone who did more than push paper. A champagne glass rested in his hand, and he raised it in a small salute as he drew closer.
"Sebastian." She kept her voice neutral, professional. “You look like you're enjoying yourself.”
"I could say the same about you." His eyes swept over her, not in the assessing way of most men at these events, but with something softer. "I have to admit, I was curious whether you were always this quiet, or if everyone here simply gives you less interesting things to talk about."
She felt the compliment land somewhere uncomfortable. "Thank you."
He looked to Liam with an easy nod. "Liam. Hope I'm not interrupting important business."
"You are." Liam's voice was flat, but not hostile—a statement of fact rather than a challenge.
Sebastian's smile didn't waver. "Then I'll make it quick." He shifted his attention back to Elena, and she felt the full weight of it settle on her like a hand at her lower back. Polite. Warm. Focused. "I wanted to say, properly, that I enjoyed our conversation earlier. Brief as it was."
"You as well," she said, and meant it. He'd been the only person at the gala who'd spoken to her about the art itself.
"I was hoping," Sebastian continued, his voice dropping just slightly, intimate without being inappropriate, "that after the auction, when you're free of professional obligations, I might steal you for dinner. They always hold the dinner after the auction.”
The words hung in the air, polite and unmistakable. An invitation. A proposition dressed in velvet.
Elena's throat tightened. She felt the shift in the space beside her—Liam's stillness becoming something heavier, more present, even though he hadn't moved. She could feel his attention on her like a pressure against her skin.
She looked at Sebastian. His expression was open, patient, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her answer. There was no pressure in his posture, no sense of demand. He was giving her room to decide.
And then she looked at Liam.
His face was unreadable. The same controlled mask he wore in boardrooms, in negotiations, in moments when he was calculating three moves ahead. Not angry. Not possessive—not visibly, anyway. Just… waiting, watching to see what she would do.
And she realized, with a small internal lurch, that she didn't know what she was allowed to do.
The contract didn't forbid dinner invitations. It didn't mention other men at all. But the contract wasn't the only thing governing her life anymore. There was the kiss. The way his hand had cupped her jaw in the game room. The way his thumb had traced her lower lip before he'd leaned in.
There was the fact that she still didn't know what that kiss had meant—to him, to them, to whatever this arrangement was becoming.
"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. Felt both men's attention on her, one warm and waiting, one cool and unreadable. "I'm not sure what my schedule looks like after the auction."
She turned to Liam, the question forming before she could second-guess it.
"Will I be free after the auction?"
His eyes met hers. For a moment, something flickered in their depths—surprise, perhaps, or something else she couldn't name. Then his expression settled into something closer to its usual inscrutability.
The gala continued around them, champagne flutes clinking, voices rising and falling in waves of polite laughter, but the three of them stood in a pocket of stillness, the moment stretching like glass being pulled thin.
The question hung between them, small and enormous, simple in words but impossible in everything it carried.