His other hand finds the small of my back in a casual claim that everyone nearby takes notice of.
Ezra leans close, lips brushing my ear in what appears to be an affectionate gesture. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this. Just know I’m going to wreck every piece of you they touch.”
The threat sends heat spiraling through me, inappropriate and unwelcome for the role I play tonight. I accept the champagne, taking a slow sip as Claude observes the exchange with a glare.
“Another time, perhaps,” I tell Claude, dismissing him with the practiced ease of someone used to discarding lovers.
With clear reluctance, he retreats, his expression promising future encounters.
Ezra’s hand remains at my back, guiding me toward the far wall where several paintings hang under directed lighting, and the encounter with Claude slips from my thoughts as my attention settles onAnatomy of a Ghost.
My forgery, hanging on Halcyon’s wall while the original rests in the secure stash box in my car, currently parked in the Rockford estate’s garage.
Pride mingles with anxiety in my chest, watching others admire what is perhaps my finest work.
“It’s exquisite.” Ezra steps up beside me, observing the same details I do. “Exactly like the one in my bedroom.”
My skin prickles at the comment. Faced with this one, which does he believe is real? He’d be wrong either way. They’re both fake.
A woman in a midnight blue gown pauses beside us. “Magnificent, isn’t it? The crown jewel of tonight’s auction.”
“Indeed,” I reply in Lorenzo’s cultured tones. “Though its provenance is complicated.”
“Oh?” She turns to me, curious about the story. “How so?”
I offer the official version, the one that appears in auction catalogs and museum notes. “It vanished from public view for almost three decades before resurfacing in a private collection. They say it was misplaced in a museum storage facility during a renovation.”
“Fascinating!” She spins back to the painting with more interest. “The mystery behind great art is often as compelling as the works themselves.”
Ezra clears his throat. “Didn’t an art thief by the name of Abílio Merces steal it?”
Ice shoots through my veins. My grandfather’s name in Ezra’s mouth feels like an impossibility. How could he know it? Abílio Merces was arrested under a different name. His real identity was only revealed after he died in prison.
“No,” I manage, keeping Lorenzo’s composure by sheer will. “That’s just a romantic story to add to its history. It was rediscovered at a museum where it had been misplaced.”
When I frown at Ezra, he offers me a guileless smile that does nothing to ease my nerves. By revealing knowledge he shouldn’t possess, he threw me off balance on purpose, and the message rattles through me. He knows more about me than I’ve chosen to share.
Was last night a game? If he connected my grandfather to me, then he knew my real name long before I gave it to him. But he savored the moment I offered it up, thinking it was by choice.
We move on, continuing our circuit of the gallery, but my mind races, calculating how deep Ezra’s research into my past might have gone. The weight of his hand on my back becomes proprietary as I remember his promise to break me.
We pass through a crowd of admirers, exchange pleasantries with a museum director, and pause before a Rodin sculpture Lorenzo would appreciate. But my focus has fractured, my attention divided between the performance and the growing certainty that Ezra is playing a deeper game than I realized.
“A masterful piece of art,” a smooth, polished voice says from beside me. “You have a good eye.”
I turn enough to give the man half my attention, eyebrow arching in silent assessment. “Yes.”
Nothing else. Rodin doesn’t need my commentary. That his work is brilliant is common knowledge. Parroting it in this room is the conversational equivalent of a wet napkin. Lorenzo does not entertain the obvious.
I skim the speaker. His suit is midnight wool, hand-finished, the kind of tailoring seen with legacy wealth. But it’s his stillness that stands out. He’s too composed, too curated. A man who’s learned how to blend in with the elite but still doesn’t belong.
I tilt my head, just a degree past polite. He’s not someone Lorenzo recognizes, and that in itself is offensive.
“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Vescari, but I had to introduce myself to the man with the sharpest eye in the room.” He offers a gloved hand. “Harcourt Vane. I manage acquisitions for Halcyon Hall.”
“Ah. So you’re the man responsible for tonight’s entertainment.” I hold out my hand, fingers pointed downward as if expecting him to kiss my ring, making the moment awkward because this monster has a human being in a cage upstairs. “A pleasure, Mr. Vane. Your collection has… eclectic taste.”
Harcourt fumbles to squeeze my fingers, doing an awkward half-bow. “We’re delighted our efforts were intriguing enough to tempt you. If you findanythingyou desire tonight, let me know. I’ll see that it’s yours.”
