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Then, someone calls Ross's name from several feet away. Neither of us looks. For the first time since he crossed the room, I am grateful for the noise around us.

I can do this.

I can stand in front of him. I can talk about San Francisco and paintings and private sales while keeping the rest of my life exactly where it belongs—far away from Ross Kensington.

He broke my heart once. He does not get access to anything else.

The interruption comes before either of us has to decide what to say next. A silver-haired man steps toward Ross from the other side of the gallery and touches his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Ross, I’m sorry,” the man says.

“Could I borrow you for a minute?”

Ross looks at me before answering.

“Of course,” he says.

The man turns to me with a polite smile.

“My apologies,” he says.

“Not at all,” I reply.

Ross holds my gaze for another second, then follows him toward the center of the room.

I finally exhale.

The relief is immediate, but not complete. I finish the champagne in my glass and set it on a passing tray. Leaving now would be easy. I have stayed long enough to be polite, spoken to the people I needed to speak to and made the professional appearance Julian intended when he invited me.

I am already considering the quickest route to the coat check when Rebecca catches me near the entrance to the adjoining gallery.

“You aren’t escaping already, are you?” she asks.

“I was thinking about it.”

“Absolutely not,” Rebecca says. “Come look at the Calder study before you go. I want your opinion.”

I let her pull me into the quieter exhibition room because refusing would draw more attention than following her.

The room is smaller than the main gallery and arranged around several works that are not part of the central preview. The noise from the reception softens immediately, leaving only the low music and occasional bursts of conversation drifting through the open doorway.

Rebecca stops beside a framed work on paper.

“I’m considering it for a client,” she says.

“Tell me whether I’m being seduced by the provenance.”

I look at the piece.

“You’re being seduced by the condition.”

“That too.”

We spend several minutes talking through it, and for the first time since Ross crossed the room, my attention settles somewhere else.

Then Rebecca’s phone vibrates.

She glances at the screen.