r. She moved through the space on Alexander's arm, hyperaware of every calculating gaze that tracked their progr

crescent around a raised platform where artwork worth more than small nations' GDP would be casually bought and sold. C

mo

sively on the small of her back. The contact sent unwanted electricity spiraling through her body, and sh

finishing school had drilled into her bones. The midnight gown pooled around her like spilled

hed hers through layers of expensive fabric. "The people in this room have toppled governments for sport," he said conversation

r want to pour her drink on his head, bu

d what does your

with amusement and som

te terms later

at could destroy everything she'd worked for. She was here to gather intelligence, not to melt under the first man who'd looked at her like she

the platform like a vision in midnight blue silk. Her presence commanded absolute attention-conversations ceased, glasses paused halfway to

"Welcome to this evening's special collection. Each piece you'll see tonight has been... liberated from collections

es operating at the highest levels of society. She was sitting in a room full of senators, CEOs, and foreign di

go. The bidding started at five million and escalated with the casual brutality of people for whom money had transcended mere currency and become pure power. "Magni

at probably cost more than her monthly rent, could feel the heat radiating from his body like a furnace. "You appreciate emotion in art?" she asked, proud that her voice remained steady despite the way her

had any left to spare. "And how do you distinguish authenticity from performance?" she asked, the question carrying more weight than he could possibly know. His smile was sha

arly fascinating specimen. The Van Gogh sold for twenty-eight million to a woman Anna vaguely recognized from the society pages-some tech heiress with more money

y genuine. "A unique piece commissioned by the late Elizabeth Bellamy for her private collection. Crafted

th had spent countless hours reading poetry aloud while Anna played at her feet. The scu

t like a poisonous flower, so intense she had to grip her champagne flute to keep from launching herself at the platform. Her mother's art-Elizabeth's most personal expression of pain transformed into

na managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite the earthquake happening inside her chest. "Art should make you feel something," he said, his attentio

ne, and felt something crystallize inside her chest that was harder and sharper than mere anger. This wasn't just about reclaiming her inheritance anymore. This was about justice for a woman

iated the kind of predatory menace that made smart women cross streets and lock doors. His smile was th

ith sharp attention. "Should I?" Anna deflected, though

der's voice held warning notes that made her skin prickle. "He's

. As handlers carried away the last piece of her mother's a

ereaux anymore. She was going to bring down th

going to s