"How was the gallery?" he asks.
I freeze for a fraction of a second. The lie is ready. I rehearsed it in the elevator.
"Good," I say, walking toward the bar to pour myself a water. "Quiet. I got some sketching done. The lighting was perfect today."
"Sketching," he repeats.
"Yes. Why?"
"What did you sketch?"
"Just... concepts. For the new collection."
I take a sip of water. My hand is steady. I am proud of that.
Silas stands up.
He walks toward me. He moves with that prowling grace that always makes me feel like I should run.
He stops right in front of me. He smells of scotch and cold fury.
"You’re lying," he says softly.
I look up at him. "Excuse me?"
"Your heart rate," he says, tapping the face of his watch. "It peaked at one hundred and thirty-five beats per minute at 12:30 PM. Were you sketching a marathon, Ivy? Or were you doing something else?"
My blood runs cold. The tracker. I forgot about the damn tracker.
"I..." I scramble for an excuse. "I went for a walk. I walked fast. I wanted fresh air."
"In Madison Square Park?"
I stop breathing.
He knows.
He was there. Or he tracked me.
"Silas, let me explain."
"Who is he?"
The question comes out as a growl. He grabs my waist, pulling me hard against him. His fingers dig into my hips, bruising.
"Who is the man in the cheap suit, Ivy?"
"He’s nobody," I whisper. "He’s just..."
"Don't lie to me!" He shakes me once, hard. "I saw you. I saw you sitting with him. I saw you smile at him. I saw you take something from him."
He backs me up until my hips hit the marble bar. He crowds my space, his body a wall of heat and aggression.
"Are you bored?" he demands. "Is that it? Is my money and my power not enough for you? Do you need to fuck slumming strangers in the park to feel something?"
"I’m not fucking him!" I shout, pushing against his chest. "You’re crazy! It wasn't like that!"
"Then what was it?"
