Then someone calls his name, and he turns away, drawn into a circle of what must be important people by the way they stand—entitled, expectant.
I slip away, heart racing, desperate for air. In the momentary shelter of a quiet alcove, I press my palms against the cool wall and try to steady myself.
What just happened? Why am I reacting this way to a stranger? I've seen attractive men before. I've even met celebrities through Mrs. Caldwell. But no one has ever made me feel like I'm standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous with just a look.
The auction is about to begin. I need to find Mrs. Caldwell, need to focus on my job, on stability, on the normal world Iinhabit. Not on steel-gray eyes that seem to see through pretense straight into the core of me.
I smooth my dress, check my minimal makeup in the reflection of my phone, and step back into the crowd.
But as I make my way toward the auction floor, I feel it again—that awareness, that pull. I don't need to turn to know he's watching me. And somehow, deep in my bones, I sense that this moment, this night, is a threshold I'm about to cross.
I just don't know yet how completely it will change me.
two
. . .
The final gavelfalls with a crack that echoes through the auction hall, sealing the fate of a Monet landscape at twelve million dollars. I watch Mrs. Caldwell's shoulders slump slightly—she dropped out of the bidding at nine million—while I make neat notations in the catalog. Three acquisitions tonight, none of them her top choices. She'll be in a mood tomorrow, which means I'll need to bring her favorite pastries to the morning meeting. I'm so focused on this mental calculation that I don't immediately notice the sudden hush falling over our corner of the room, or the prickling sensation returning to my skin, until a voice like warm gravel speaks directly to me.
"You have an exceptional eye."
I look up, and my breath catches. He stands before me—Dominic Steele—close enough that I can see the faint threads of silver at his temples and smell the subtle notes of his cologne, something woodsy and exclusive. His attention is fixed on me with such precision that the bustling auction room seems to fade into background noise.
"I... excuse me?" My voice emerges smaller than I intend.
Mrs. Caldwell turns, her expression shifting from irritation to calculated interest as she recognizes him. "Mr. Steele, what a pleasure. I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm?—"
"Victoria Caldwell," he finishes for her, his eyes never leaving mine even as he addresses her. "Your reputation precedes you." Then those steel-gray eyes flick to her, just for a moment, before returning to me with an intensity that feels almost tactile. "And your assistant is?"
"This is Wren Marlowe," Mrs. Caldwell says, suddenly proud, as if I'm another acquisition she's showing off. "She has been invaluable to me this past year. Quite the talent herself."
His mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. "I noticed her studying the Degas. Most people were drawn to the larger pieces, but she went straight to the one with the most soul."
Heat floods my cheeks. He was watching me that closely? For that long?
"I was just doing my job," I manage to say, gripping my pen so tightly I fear it might snap. "Helping Mrs. Caldwell evaluate the lots."
"And what did you think of the Degas?" he asks, ignoring my deflection.
I hesitate, caught between professional caution and the strange compulsion to be honest with him. "I thought it was the only piece in the room that wasn't trying too hard to announce its importance."
Mrs. Caldwell makes a small, disapproving sound beside me, but Dominic's expression intensifies, and something that might be pleasure darkens his eyes.
"Precisely," he says, the word landing between us like a private communication. Then he turns slightly, creating a bubble that somehow excludes Mrs. Caldwell despite herstanding right beside us. "What medium do you work in, Ms. Marlowe?"
The question startles me. "How did you know I'm an artist?"
"Victoria mentioned your talent. And I can see it in how you look at the work. You don't just appreciate—you evaluate. Create."
The accuracy of his observation unsettles me. "I work primarily in mixed media. Collage with oil painting overlay."
"Contemporary themes?"
"Urban isolation within natural settings." I'm answering automatically now, falling into the rhythm of discussing my work despite the strange intimacy of the conversation.
"Fascinating." He says it like he means it, not the empty platitude people usually offer when discussing an unknown artist's work. "I'd like to see it sometime."
Mrs. Caldwell interjects, perhaps sensing an opportunity. "Wren's quite gifted. She's had several pieces in smaller galleries downtown."
