Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Sloane studies the image of a sharp-featured woman in her fifties. “I’ve read her reviews. She destroyed the Wilson exhibit last spring.”
“Because his work was derivative.” I swipe to the next photo. “James Morton. Old money, major collector. He funded three of the biggest jewelry exhibitions at the Met in the last decade. He’ll try to lowball you through intermediaries, but he always pays full price for pieces he really wants.”
“The one who outbid everyone for the Cartier archives?”
“You’ve done your research.” I pause at a photo of a younger man with cold eyes. “Richard Kane. My biggest competitor in Asian markets. He’s been trying to expand into luxury goods. Don’t accept any private meetings if he offers.”
She nods, then reaches up to adjust one of her bracelets, making minute adjustments that probably only she can see.
“Nervous?” I ask.
She meets my eyes. “No. I’m ready.”
The moment we step into the Metropolitan’s grand ballroom, the buzz of conversation falters. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors and velvet gowns, highlighting the cream and gilt molding that frames the soaring ceiling. Heads turn in waves—first those near the entrance, then rippling outward like stones dropped in still water.
I note with satisfaction the models I’d arranged for—three willowy figures in white silk sheaths that serve as perfect backdrops for Sloane’s pieces. They move through the crowd with practiced grace. One wears a suite of white gold and diamonds that traces the elegant line of her spine. Another displays an intricate collar of silver filigree and moonstones that draws every eye in the room. The third wears a convertible piece that transforms from bracelet to necklace, demonstrating its mechanics to a captivated audience. Every movement is choreographed to ensure the jewelry catches the light just so.
I keep my hand on Sloane’s lower back as we descend the curved staircase. Her black dress moves like liquid shadow, making the diamonds at her throat and ears seem brighter, more alive. Against the sea of bright colors—emerald silks, ruby satins, sapphire chiffons—she stands out like a perfect black diamond.
The crowd parts and re-forms around us. Women in designer gowns pause mid-conversation, champagne flutes forgotten in their hands. Men in tailored tuxedos track our movement across the floor, their usual carefully maintained expressions slipping. Within minutes, we’re surrounded by New York’s elite, all vying for introductions. Diamond-draped socialites lean in close, openly staring at the delicate silver pieces adorning Sloane’s neck and wrists. A well-known fashion editor actually reaches out to touch one of her earrings before catching herself.
Sloane handles it perfectly. She’s gracious but not eager, elegant but approachable. When asked about her collection, she speaks with quiet confidence about her inspiration, her techniques. She doesn’t oversell—she doesn’t need to. The pieces speak for themselves.
“Cole.” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd. Alexander Pierce, one of New York’s biggest collectors. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
I make the introduction, watching as Sloane charms yet another influential figure in the art world. But I’m also scanning the room, noting who’s watching, who’s making calls, who’s trying to get closer.
Let them watch. Let them see exactly who she is. What she’s capable of.
Let them all see that she’s not just mine. She’s a force of her own.
After an hour of introductions and carefully navigated conversations, I notice her fingers drifting to her collar more frequently—a habit she only falls into when she’s feeling overwhelmed. I lean close, my lips near her ear. “Come with me.”
I guide her through a hidden door behind a tapestry, into one of the Met’s private galleries. Here, the noise of the gala becomes distant, muffled. Ancient artifacts rest in glass cases, bathed in soft light. Sloane’s shoulders relax as she takes in our surroundings.
“How did you know I needed this?”
“You were starting to fidget with your collar.” I run my finger along its edge, feeling her pulse quicken. “You’ve been perfect out there. Every person in that room is either envying you or wanting to own a piece of what you create.”
She turns to face me, and in the dim light I see something fierce in her eyes. “I saw the models wearing my pieces. That was your doing?”
“You can’t wear everything you’ve created.” I trace the line of her jaw. “And I want them desperate to see the full collection. The convertible piece on Isabelle has three society wives plotting how to get first dibs. The spine necklace on Sofia had Diana Winters taking notes. And that moonstone collar?” I smile. “I’ve watched at least five women try to get James Morton’s attention, hoping he’ll buy it for them.”
“You’re teasing them.”
“I’m creating demand. By the time we reveal the full collection, they’ll be ready to kill each other for it.” My thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Besides, you chose which pieces to wear tonight. The ones that matter most. The ones that show exactly who you are.”