Dominic doesn't acknowledge her comment. Instead, he reaches into his suit jacket and extracts a business card—thick, cream-colored stock with only his name and number embossed in dark gray. "I have a proposal for you, Ms. Marlowe."
My fingers tremble slightly as I accept the card. "A proposal?"
"I'm looking to commission a series of original works for my private collection. Based on what I've observed tonight, I believe you might be the right artist for the project."
Mrs. Caldwell's eyebrows shoot up. Dominic Steele's private collection is legendary—curated with ruthless selectivity and rarely featuring unknown artists.
"But you haven't seen my work," I point out, my practical nature pushing through the haze of attraction.
A slight tilt of his head, as if I've said something unexpected and mildly entertaining. "I'm an excellent judge of... potential." The pause before the last word feels weighted with meaning I can't decipher.
"What kind of commission did you have in mind?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Something exclusive. Significant in scope." His gaze never wavers from mine. "The compensation would be substantial—enough to allow you to focus solely on creation for the duration of the project."
My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. Financial freedom, even temporarily, to just create? It's the dream of every struggling artist.
"Of course, she'd need to coordinate with her commitments to me," Mrs. Caldwell interjects, her tone artificially light.
Dominic finally turns to her, his expression cooling several degrees. "I'm sure arrangements could be made that would be... mutually beneficial."
The way he says it makes it clear that refusing him would be unwise. Mrs. Caldwell seems to sense this too, because she immediately nods. "We could certainly discuss a temporary leave of absence if the commission is substantial enough."
I feel like I'm being bartered over, a strange commodity suddenly valuable because Dominic Steele has shown interest.
"I would need to see examples of your previous work, of course," he continues, attention returning to me like a physical touch. "Perhaps you could bring a portfolio to my office later this week."
"I—yes, I could do that." The words tumble out before I've fully processed what I'm agreeing to.
"Excellent." He reaches into another pocket and produces a sleek phone. "Your number?"
I recite it automatically, watching as his fingers—long, strong, decisive—tap it into his phone.
"I'll have my assistant contact you to arrange a time." He extends his hand to me, and I realize he's expecting a handshake to seal our tentative agreement.
I place my palm against his, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm straight to my core. His hand is warm and dry, engulfing mine completely. He doesn't shake so much as hold, his thumb brushing once across my knuckles in a gesture that seems both possessive and assessing. Our eyes lock, and for a suspended moment, I forget we're in a crowded auction house, forget Mrs. Caldwell is standing right beside us, forget everything but the sensation of his skin against mine and the unmistakable current passing between us.
"Until then, Ms. Marlowe." He releases my hand and turns to Mrs. Caldwell with a perfunctory nod. "A pleasure, Victoria."
We both watch him walk away, parting the crowd without effort, people instinctively creating space for his passage.
"Well," Mrs. Caldwell says, her voice tinged with something between admiration and calculation, "that was unexpected."
I nod mutely, still feeling the phantom pressure of his hand around mine.
"Dominic Steele doesn't commission nobodies, Wren." She says it like she's imparting great wisdom. "This could be transformative for your career. Though I do hope you'll remember who gave you your first break when you're famous." She laughs lightly, already spinning this development into her narrative.
But I barely hear her, because my attention has snagged on something else she said: Dominic Steele doesn't commission nobodies. So why me? Why approach someone whose work he's never seen, based on nothing but a few moments of observation across a crowded room?
As we gather our belongings to leave, I glance back over my shoulder. He's standing with a group of men in expensive suits, ostensibly engaged in their conversation. But his eyes—those penetrating steel-gray eyes—are following me, tracking my movement toward the exit with an intensity that both thrills and unnerves me.
The business card burns in my clutch like a promise or a warning. I can't decide which, just as I can't decide whether the fluttering in my stomach is excitement or fear. Perhaps it's both.
What I don't yet recognize is that Dominic Steele has already begun his collection—and I am to be his most prized acquisition.
three
. . .
