One man drew my attention. His stare locked on me—sharp, fixed. Athletic build. Presence heavy enough to shift the air. Without asking, he rose and sat beside me. The lounge’s easy rhythm tightened.
“May I ask with whom I have the pleasure?”
“Daisy Elfhorn,” I said. “And this is my friend, Jenn Morinski.”
“Dominic Santares.” His handshake was firm, grip deliberate. Heat crawled under my skin beneath his stare.
“Dominic is my cousin’s boss,” Richard cut in.
Jenn’s eyes went wide. “You’re the Dominic Santares?”
“In the flesh.”
“I knew it. Santares Industries—global player in the art market. Traditional and digital pieces, private collections, auction houses worldwide.”
“Well read,” he said, one eyebrow lifting, clearly impressed.
“I read an article about you in theNew York Times.On the train.”
Dominic gave a faint smile, head tilting in acknowledgment. “A pleasure to meet you both. Enjoying the evening?” His gaze never left me.
“We are,” Jenn answered.
Richard leaned toward Dominic. “Jenn studies veterinary medicine.”
“There can never be enough veterinarians,” Dominic replied.
While Jenn and Richard talked, I drained my glass and set it back on the table.
“And how does one build an empire like Santares Industries?” I asked.
Dominic’s grin widened. “By combining passion with business sense. By taking risks, refusing to give up, always keeping the bigger picture in mind.”
Fervor edged his voice, almost reverent, binding him to the art he spoke of. It held me there, captive. He lifted his glass, swirling the liquid slow and deliberate.
“And what about you, Daisy?” His gaze pinned me, as if I were a rare painting. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work in an antiques shop.”
His brow lifted, genuine interest sparking. “Antiques? Then we’re practically colleagues.”
“I catalog the pieces, analyze their origins, document their histories. It’s about dragging their stories back into the light.”
“That sounds remarkable. You must have a true appreciation for culture.”
“I do. I studied art history. Every piece has its past. My job is to preserve those narratives.”
“A guardian of the past,” he said softly, pouring champagne into a glass and sliding it to me.
“Thank you. And what draws you to the art world?”
Dominic leaned back, sipping slow. “For me, art outlives time and space. A language without end. Understood no matter the century. Every piece carries emotion, every brushstroke speaks of the era it came from. Each one a window into another world.”
“That’s… beautifully put.” I hated that he impressed me.
I told him about some of my favorite works. He listened closely, questions sharp, attention fixed. Conversation flowed, glass after glass. He never let mine stay empty. I let myself get pulled under his passion for art—until the alcohol caught up, clouding me, blurring the edges. I’d had too much.
Jenn had vanished with Richard to the dance floor, leaving me alone with Dominic. He’d shifted closer—so close our legs touched. His arm stretched across the back of the couch. If I leaned back, I’d fall into him.
