That reluctant admittance gets her attention, and a small, knowing curve touches her lips. “I imagine whoever the woman is wishes she’d bid higher.”
Heat crawls up my neck as I force a shrug. “Doubt it.”
Rina has made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t want me.
Or maybe she’s just determined not to.
Either way, that’s the only reason a socialite gets the night I painstakingly created piece by piece for her.
Something soft passes through Evelyn’s eyes as she stares from across the space that separates us.
It’s not pity, exactly.
More like understanding.
The kind that comes from knowing exactly what it costs to want someone you can’t have.
“When the right woman comes along,” she murmurs, “even the strongest men lose their balance.”
Her tone is gentle but steady, landing like a truth I’m unprepared to hear.
In that moment, it’s tempting to confess everything—the tour, the painting I wanted to show Rina, how I’d planned to tell her my feelings were anything but casual.
Instead, I shove the urge deep down where it can’t see the light of day.
Evelyn clears her throat before sliding a form toward me. “There’s a press conference tomorrow. Make sure you’re ready. We can’t afford any more headlines.”
With a nod, I push to my feet. Even though her attention returns to her papers, I feel her watching me as I leave.
Out in the hallway, the silence stretches long and heavy.
That’s when I realize I’m standing at a crossroads, and an idea takes shape. If Rina won’t pick up the phone, I’ll find another way to make her listen.
One she can’t ignore.
15
Rina
I’m halfway down the hall, mentally running through the dozen tasks waiting on my desk, when Evelyn’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Rina? A word?”
I stop short and backtrack before peeking into her office. My boss sits behind her desk, papers spread out in neat, deliberate rows. Her diamond earrings catch the overhead light, the only shimmer in an otherwise restrained space. Even after years of working for her, she can still make me straighten my spine without thinking. Authority clings to her like perfume. It’s subtle, pervasive, and impossible to ignore.
“Of course,” I say, stepping inside.
She gestures to the chair opposite her with a graceful tilt of her hand. “Sit.”
The command lands softly but carries weight.
Intent.
I lower myself into the chair and smooth my skirt in a motion that’s more about grounding myself than appearance.
Evelyn’s cool and assessing gaze drifts from the document in front of her back to me. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner tomorrow night.”
My brows lift before I can stop them. “Dinner?”
