Still, no man of his wealth and good looks settles into marriage with a woman like me without a get-out clause.
“My husband picked it,” I murmur. “He has a better eye for fashion than I do. I’m more of a sweats girl.”
“Aren’t we all?” She laughs and loops her arm through mine. “He did a good job picking something that fits so well… it’s like he’s memorized your measurements.”
Heat crawls up my neck and I laugh it off.
We drift past abstract canvases exploding in violent color, copper sculptures twisted into something both brutal and beautiful. Conversations hum around us, from politics to philanthropy to investments disguised as generosity.
For the first time in weeks, my brain switches gears. I’m not scanning the exits or mapping threat levels as often. Because everywhere I look, I see our security dotted around the room, pretending to admire art while tracking every movement.
Before I’d left the apartment, Bronx introduced me to each of them so I’d know their faces. I took the opportunity to tell them my signals for danger, making sure they understood what I’d do if something felt off.
Bronx had leaned against the wall and watched me as I spoke. His expression changed as if he was proud of how I handled myself.
Or maybe I’ve spent too long locked inside his penthouse and I’m starting to romanticize captivity.
Halfway through the gallery, past the elegant abstracts and sculptures that look like they belong in a billionaire’s foyer, I stop dead in front of something catastrophic.
It’s an enormous six-foot canvas with a neon pink background, depicting a badly rendered squirrel wearing a crown.
I blink up at it.
Livvie follows my stare and almost chokes on her champagne.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “It’s hideous.”
“It’s perfect,” I correct. “A royal rodent nutcracker.”
“What?” She angles into me. “You’re not serious.”
I tilt my head, studying the brushwork as if I’m assessing technical brilliance rather than plotting chaos.
“Tell me this wouldn’t look incredible in a sleek, minimalist penthouse.”
Livvie bursts out laughing. “You wouldn’t.”
I glance at the hefty price and smile. “I absolutely would.”
“Why?” she laughs behind her hand.
I give her a small, wicked smile. “Because I want to see if he hangs it in our penthouse.”
She stares at me. “Oh, you are brilliant, Tierney.”
While I place a ludicrously high bid, Livvie leans close. “You hate it, don’t you?”
“I fucking despise it. And I guarantee I’ll win.”
We both laugh, and for a second, it doesn’t feel strategic. Rather, it’s… easy. Like maybe Livvie and I could actually be allies.
Back at the penthouse, I head straight for the bar andpour myself a glass of wine. I stayed sober at the auction so I could stay sharp.
“Did you have a fun evening without me?” Bronx asks from the comfy seat near the tall windows.
He’s relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the chair, city lights bleeding in behind him.
I carry my glass across the room, aware of his gaze sliding up the thigh-high slit in my dress. As it lingers, my core clenches.
