Chapter One
It was mid-September in Manhattan when Oriana and Reese stalled outside the Hamilton Hotel, handed their keys over to a valet driver they knew well, and stepped into the foyer of the iconic lobby. Their art auction wasn’t set to begin for another three hours, and Oriana yearned for the in-room Jacuzzi, maybe a glass of champagne, and a little bit of downtime with her husband. It felt like a while since they’d reconnected, since they’d had enough time to gaze into one another’s eyes, laugh, and unwind.
Oriana had booked their favorite suite. Sitting on the bed, she removed her shoes and socks, watching out the window as the autumnal breeze ruffled through the leaves of Central Park just beyond. Reese flicked on the Jacuzzi, wagged his eyebrows, and put a hand in to test its temperature.
“Champagne?” Oriana asked, heading for the minibar.
“You know I can’t say no.” Reese smiled.
Sitting in the Jacuzzi with all of Manhattan before them, they clinked glasses and sipped the vivacious bubbles. Every muscle in Oriana’s body turned to pudding. She draped her head over the side of the Jacuzzi and looked at her husband, the handsome and charming man who’d been her partner in life and love fordecades. She knew not everyone was as lucky as she was, that many people got divorced or fell out of love or were cheated on. Just now, she fought her instinct to ask Reese why he thought their marriage worked so well. She didn’t want to ruin their happiness with a conversation.
“Thanks for coming to the city with me.” She reached over to stroke his arm.
Reese dropped himself deeper into the water so their calves were touching. Oriana felt as though they’d stolen hours out of their ultra-busy lives.
“It’s amazing to take a few days off,” Reese admitted. “I’m sorry I’ve been so overwhelmed lately.”
Oriana laughed and raised her shoulders out of the water. “We’re both overwhelmed all the time. It’s our way.”
But Oriana knew what Reese meant. He’d been extra in over his head lately, extra-stressed in a way that often had him too tired to dine with her or their children or their grandchildren if they were around. If they managed to watch a movie on an odd weekend, he often conked out halfway through and never found time to finish it on his own. He’d seemed more like a shadow of himself. Oriana knew better than to blame him for it.
“I’m here to make up for it,” Reese said, taking her hand beneath the water.
“I’m sorry we have to get through this auction first,” Oriana said. “I promise. After tonight, no more work till Monday morning.”
“Make it Tuesday, and you’ve got a deal.” Reese winked, and they shook on it.
Oriana told herself she could take Monday off. It wasn’t like any of her clients noticed when she worked. They were artists who painted, drew, and sculpted at odd hours of every day of the week. The people she sold to were often worse than that: wealthyand arrogant and without a care in the world, most of the time. The normal Monday-to-Friday schedule didn’t matter to them.
Forty-five minutes before they needed to leave for the auction, Oriana showered, did her hair and makeup, and slipped into a chic black suit and a pair of heels. Reese put on a suit jacket and a pair of slacks and bent over to kiss her on the cheek. He knew the game. He couldn’t mess up her lipstick before a night like this.
The art auction was held in a beautiful old train station that had been transformed into an events space for elegant weddings and grand anniversary parties, and sometimes for auctions of expensive wine or art. Oriana and Reese entered the hall, grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server, and went to their assigned seats. Beside them were a husband and wife named Gina and Bartholomew, who’d been on the art dealing circuit for longer than Oriana had. They shook hands and asked about one another’s families before Bartholomew dug into Oriana.
“What are you after today?” he asked, his eyes glinting.
These art auctions were competitive. Art dealers were always after the next new “thing”—the painting style that would create a new era of buying or the artist who would revitalize the industry. Oriana, Bartholomew, and Gina were no different. Neither were any of the 200-plus dealers around them, settling in their chairs.
Oriana played dumb. “I’m here to check out the scene.”
Gina and Bartholomew laughed and exchanged cryptic glances.
“We know you’re always up to something, Oriana,” Bartholomew said.
The truth was, Oriana had heard rumors about this particular auction. Apparently, the powers that be had dug old paintings out of some backwater warehouse somewhere—truly glorious paintings that demanded their attention. They were paintings thought to be lost in time. These sorts of paintingsusually generated their own fascinating stories. They were attached to tragic painters who were either long dead or long broke. Oriana liked to learn their stories. She liked to build an entire narrative around a few paintings and see how that narrative sold to her buyers. For example, she’d once bought a forty-two-year-old painting of a seabird that she later learned had been painted by a Holocaust survivor still living. She’d sold the painting for fifty-six million dollars and brought fame to the painter’s life, all over a single piece.
Reese muttered into her ear, “These people are cutthroat.”
“You know I’m worse.” She laughed.
The auction began. The first few paintings wheeled out were plain old boring to Oriana, who glanced around, bemused by the other dealers’ obsession with them. They fought over a painting of a barn for nearly ten minutes, going into the hundreds of thousands for it. Reese whispered that he needed to find a bathroom, and she glanced over to see that he was pale.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I don’t think I ate enough today.” Reese waved her off. “I’ll be right back.”
Oriana watched him go, her thoughts stirring, until suddenly a new painting was wheeled onto the stage. It immediately captured Oriana’s attention. It featured a little girl on the edge of a mountain in the Rockies, clutching a light blue blanket. Wind encircled her and yanked her hair toward the frothing, stormy sky. Something about the painting was so alarming, so enduring, and so emotional that Oriana couldn’t look away from it. She waved her auction number through the air to secure it for a thousand. Bartholomew fought her for a while, but she eventually secured it for six thousand dollars. By the time Reese returned, she was grinning madly.
“I got something really cool,” she said.
