Instead, they look at the walls.
My soul is plastered across the white plaster of the gallery in oil and charcoal.
To my left hangsThe Red Snow. It’s a chaotic splash of white and crimson, capturing the moment Silas rubbed his blood into my cheek in the Adirondacks.
To my right isThe King of Ashes. A dark, brooding portrait of Silas, his face half-shadowed, the scar on his brow rendered in stark, jagged strokes.
And directly behind me is the centerpiece.The shipyard.
It’s abstract. A collapsing crane. A fire in the dark. A figure in white lying broken on the asphalt.
"It’s visceral," a woman with too much botox and a diamond necklace the size of a fist says, leaning in to inspect the canvas. "The use of red... it’s so violent. Is it a metaphor for capitalism?"
I sip my champagne, hiding my smile behind the crystal rim.
"Something like that," I say softly. "It’s about the cost of doing business."
The woman nods sagely, pretending to understand, and moves on.
I feel a hand on the small of my back.
It’s heavy. Warm. Possessive.
I don't need to turn around to know who it is. My heart rate monitor—still strapped to my ankle beneath the floor-length emerald silk gown—probably just sent a notification to his phone.
Spike. 85 BPM.
"They love you," Silas murmurs against my ear.
I lean back into him. He is a solid wall of heat in a room that feels strangely cold. He is wearing a tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, concealing the gun I know is holstered under his left arm.
"They love the spectacle," I correct him. "They think it’s fantasy. If they knew it was a documentary, they’d be running for the exits."
"Let them run," Silas says. His hand slides down, his thumb tracing the curve of my spine through the silk. "We locked the doors."
It’s a joke. Mostly.
We are at the grand opening ofThe Vane Gallery. It is the first floor of our new fortress—the renovated building at 15 Central Park West. We live in the penthouse. The gallery is my playground. The basement is... well, the basement is where Luca keeps the things we don't talk about.
"Are you happy?" Silas asks.
I look around the room. I look at the red dots stickers on the wall next to the paintings.Sold. Sold. Sold.I have made a million dollars tonight. Legitimate money.
"I’m rich," I say.
"That wasn't the question."
I turn to face him. His blue eyes are searching mine, intense and unrelenting. He looks tired, but good. The war is over. Nikolai is dead. The city has bent the knee.
But there is a restlessness in him. I feel it because it mirrors my own.
"I’m safe," I say. "I’m successful. I’m Mrs. Vane."
"But?"
"But it’s quiet," I whisper.
Silas’s lips twitch. "Peace is boring, Ivy. We talked about this."
