His response comes almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting with his phone in hand.
Rett
We’ll be there
Just three words, but they send a weird flutter through my chest.
I punch the date into my calendar and set the phone down, a slow smile spreading across my lips. Time to grab the wheel of a runaway ship and steer it back onto a course I recognize.
By late afternoon, I’ve managed to make actual progress on the Sparne catalog. The words are finally flowing, and I’ve hit my stride describing the technical aspects of his metalwork when a shadow falls across my desk.
“Hard at work, or hardly working?”
I look up at the familiar, teasing voice to find Rudy Lewis standing over me, a warm, easy smile on his face. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, in a tailored navy suit, the wire-rimmed glasses giving him that intellectual air he cultivates so well.
“Rudy,” I greet him, a genuine smile touching my own lips. “Don’t you know better than to interrupt a curator in her natural habitat?”
“A risk I was willing to take,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I heard about the Davelle sponsorship. A major coup. I came to offer my congratulations.” He gestures to the chair beside my desk. “And to maybe steal you away for a celebratory coffee?”
It’s a familiar routine. The casual drop-in. The easy banter. The light, no-pressure invitation that I almost always turn down. We’re both betas navigating an alpha-dominated world, andthere’s always been a quiet, unspoken camaraderie between us. A sense that we’re on the same team.
“I can’t,” I say, gesturing to the mountain of work on my desk. “But thank you. And please, sit.”
He settles into the chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of relaxed confidence. “The Davelles are notoriously difficult,” he says. “Getting them to commit... Helen must be thrilled.”
“Ecstatic,” I say dryly.
“Mmm.” His expression is politely skeptical. “And I’m sure the presence of Tristan Sterling had nothing to do with it.”
My stomach drops. Not just because he knows, but because of the faint, proprietary edge in his voice. It’s a tone I’ve heard him use before, usually when discussing a piece of art he wanted but lost at auction. “You heard about that?”
“Zoe,” he says, with a small, indulgent smile that doesn’t quite mask the flicker of something harder in his eyes, “everyone heard about that. The Sterling pack isn’t exactly known for subtlety.”
Great. Just what I need. Gallery gossip.
“It wasn’t planned,” I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “He just... showed up.”
“They tend to do that,” Rudy remarks, and his gaze is no longer that of a friendly colleague. It’s sharp, intense, the look of a collector assessing a piece’s value. “The Sterlings, I mean. Show up where they’re not expected. Take what isn’t offered.” His eyes flick briefly to my neck, and his lips thin into a tight, displeased line. “Collect things that catch their interest.”
The way he says “things”... it’s dismissive. And it feels... personal. A chill runs down my spine despite the oppressive heat of said stupid turtleneck. There’s something in his tone that sets off warning bells.
“You know them?” I ask cautiously.
“We’ve crossed paths.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Artworld, business world. It’s all one giant cocktail party in Sweetwater, isn’t it?”
I nod, not sure where this is going, but increasingly certain I won’t like the destination. He has that look on his face again. The one he gets right before he wants to “pick my brain about the market” over a glass of wine. An offer I’ve become an expert at politely declining.
Rudy leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen their collection, you know. Sterling Solutions invests, and they have one of the most impressive corporate art portfolios in the city. Did you know they commissioned a Rahtrov specifically for their lobby? Seven figures, at least.”
“I didn’t,” I admit, wondering why we’re suddenly discussing the Sterlings’ art collection.
“They have excellent taste,” he continues. “Very... discerning. They only acquire pieces that are unique. Special. One-of-a-kind.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine directly. “The problem with collectors like that, Zoe, is that they don’t just collect art.”
The chill intensifies, spreading across my skin like frost. “What do you mean?”
“The Sterlings collect things,” he says simply. “Companies. Properties. People.” Another pointed look at my neck. “They find something interesting, they acquire it, they display it proudly for a while, and then...” He makes a dismissive gesture. “They move on to the next acquisition.”
My mouth has gone dry. “I don’t?—”
