CHAPTER 1

It was Melody Peltz’s night. And every single person in the marble-drenched ballroom of Peltz Art & Life knew it. She stood near the towering glass podium, champagne flute in hand, the soft light from the crystal chandelier glittering against her skin. She wore black satin, cut with surgical precision, and a diamond hairpin that once belonged to her late mother. A deliberate choice. Everything she did was deliberate. The applause still thundered in her ears as she stepped into the dim corridor behind the auction hall, her heels clicking softly against the marble. She accepted congratulations with a polite smile, nodding gracefully through praise and meaningless chatter. Behind her, the New York elite sipped vintage wine and talked about value in terms of provenance and price per square inch. Champagne bubbles still danced on her tongue, her blood thrumming with the high of the evening. The Degas had sold for triple its estimate, the Warhol even more. Tonight had rewritten records, and written her name into the annals of art history. And yet, she couldn’t exhale. Maybe it was the weight of the gold Peltz name wrapped around her throat like a necklace too tight. Maybe it was the way her father’s eyes had scanned the crowd instead of meeting hers after the final bid. Always looking past her. He, Jason Peltz, had made an appearance earlier. Five minutes. One dry congratulations. Then he vanished into the arms of donors and old power. He hadn't so much as clinked glasses with her. Present, yet calculating the next move, always evaluating her wins with how many people sees her. Melody was done trying to prove she was more than the girl with a hyphenated pedigree and a perfectly arched eyebrow. Tonight, she'd made it impossible to overlook her. The industry had taken notice—and so had the competition. She could see from the windows ahead, her sister scanning, carefully, the entire room. For her? For someone else? For a man she could steal from the scene? Melody tucked a curl behind her ear and stared into the gilded mirror lining the corridor. Her black silk gown hugged her body like a second skin, modest in cut, yet devastating in how it hinted at what lay beneath. Her eyes, kohl-lined and smoky, sparkled, but not with joy. It was something else. Hunger, maybe. A dangerous longing she didn’t know how to name. A sound behind her. She turned. He stood at the end of the corridor, framed by shadows and soft light from the party behind him. He was tall, obscenely tall, with dark hair that curled at his nape and a jaw sculpted like it had been carved for war. His suit was midnight black, tailored like sin, clinging to his broad shoulders and tapered waist. But it was his eyes...God, those eyes...that made her breath catch. Cold at first glance. Piercing. But not empty. He wasn’t looking at the art. He was looking at her. Their gazes met. And held, shortly. She tilted her chin in acknowledgment. He didn’t smile. Didn’t raise a glass. He just stared, and the intensity of it made her breath catch. She turned back to her conversation with a lady at the bar corner–briefly–only to find herself glancing his way again seconds later. He was gone. Melody blinked. Maybe he hadn’t been real. Just a product of adrenaline and too many compliments. But then– “Interesting dress choice for a celebration.” The voice brushed against her neck before she felt his presence behind her. She turned. He was closer now. Closer than he should’ve been, yet not close enough to draw suspicion. Just a whisper of a smirk on lips too perfect for real life. His eyes were... unreadable. “Excuse me?” she asked. He nodded toward the painting she stood near–a Rothko. “A piece about despair and disconnection, featured at a party meant to celebrate success. I find that interesting.” Melody raised a brow, her pulse sharpening. “Most people wouldn’t notice.” “I’m not most people.” No. He certainly wasn’t. “You’re not here for the art, are you?” she asked coolly. “I’m here for the artist, inspiration comes from a source, I value the source more,” he said. Then his gaze dropped, just slightly. Melody's lips twitched. She hadn’t smiled genuinely all night, but something about his calm, effortless challenge made her want to. “And who are you exactly?” she asked. “An admirer?” “Let’s say I have an eye for what’s rare.” She should’ve walked away. Should’ve reminded herself that strangers who spoke like silk and shadow weren’t part of her world. She had other hands to shake, other names to drop. But his presence was a gravity she wasn’t expecting. “You’re not drinking,” he said, voice deep, with the polished edge of someone used to being listened to. “I’ve had three glasses already,” Melody replied, lifting her chin. “But I suppose that depends on who’s asking.” "You are good at interactions, negotiations with the Cravins were lovely." He said in reference to a family she had spoke with before stepping away from the center of it all. "You were watching?" Melody asked. “Watching is passive,” he said. “Admiring is... interactive. Intentional. Like standing in front of a painting and letting it touch something raw in you.” Her pulse spiked. “And what exactly do I touch in you?” she asked before she could stop herself. He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You don’t want the real answer to that.” She laughed, soft, breathy, unexpected. “Try me.” He took another step. Close now. She could smell the faintest whiff of cedarwood and heat—clean, masculine, alluring. “Then let me start here,” he said. “Let's forget about the world and business for just one night and have fun.” “Come with me,” he said, without explanation. She should have asked questions. Should have stepped back, closed the door, or laughed it off. But she didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t about trust. Maybe it was about the stillness she’d been craving—the kind that comes when someone sees through the noise. Not the headlines or the stage lights. Just her. And maybe that was more dangerous than anything she could’ve done. They burst through the door of the suit at the heights of the building, like they were being chased by something—lust, maybe. Or the quiet ache of two people who hadn’t been touched properly in a long time. Melody’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, and the stranger’s mouth was on hers again, fierce and hungry, like she was the last beautiful thing he’d ever taste. His hands were bold—gripping her hips, sliding up her back, cupping her face. She felt swallowed by him. Not dominated. Not forced. Worshipped. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, he turned to her like he was starving. “You’re not shy,” he murmured, eyes on her mouth. “No,” she said, voice low. “But I am tired of pretending to be good.” He let out a low growl, more animal than man, and kissed her. Not soft. Not cautious. It was a claiming. His mouth crushed against hers, lips fierce, tongue insistent. She gasped, and he took advantage of the sound, she wanted to be in control, not be controlled. She deepened the kiss until she was dizzy, until the only thing she could feel was the wild beat of her heart pounding against his chest. His hands moved with precision, one at the small of her back, the other gripping her thigh and hiking it around his waist like he already knew how she liked to be touched. She had no idea how she got out of the dress. Maybe he’d torn it. Maybe she’d shrugged it off herself. All she knew was that her skin was bare, and his hands were fire. He lifted her effortlessly, like she weighed nothing, and laid her on the cool sheets of the bed. Her breath came in sharp, needy pants. “You’re taking your time.” “Of course I am,” he said, eyes devouring her. “You deserve to be unraveled, not rushed.” He kissed down her neck, his lips trailing fire along her collarbone, between the curve of her breasts, to the dip of her stomach. Every inch of her came alive under his mouth. She arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue dipped lower, teasing, tormenting, worshiping. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, lips brushing hers. “Don’t you dare.” He surged forward, mouth closing over her nipple as his hands slid down to her thighs, spreading them open as he guided her onto the bed. The contact of his tongue against her skin...his mouth hot, wet, greedy. He licked and sucked with an expert rhythm, memorizing the shape of her moans. He moved lower. Melody gasped when his mouth reached the heat between her thighs. He groaned like a man starved, tongue flicking against her spot before plunging deeper, licking, stroking, teasing. She writhed under him, fingers, of hands spread apart, knotted the bed...thighs tightening around his head. And he didn’t stop. He moaned into her. His hands pinned her hips in place, keeping her open, keeping her his. “Oh God,” she cried out, her legs trembling, body arching off the bed as release tore through her, but he didn’t give her time to recover. He rose above her, dark eyes blown wide, his mouth slick with her taste. He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip slowly—taunting her, claiming her. “Fuck!” she panted, tears rolling down the sides of her eyes. “I already have you.” He stripped with swift precision, the sound of zippers and fabric hitting the floor like punctuation between breaths. When he climbed onto the bed, she gasped. Every inch of him was hard and carved—his chest broad, his abs ridged, his length thick and pulsing with desire. There was no hesitation in his movements and no apology he had to offer. Just raw, masculine intent. “Turn over,” he commanded, voice low, velvet and danger. She obeyed, her body alight. He ran a hand down her spine, slow and possessive. Then he thrust inside her. She cried out, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it. Of him. He filled her completely, stretching her until she was gasping, her body bowing beneath the weight of him. He started slow, deep strokes that left her trembling, grinding into her with deliberate control. But it didn’t last. His hand slid up her spine, fisted in her hair, pulling her up so her back met his chest. Skin slapping skin. Her cries echoing against the glass walls. He drove into her harder, faster, his control unraveling with each thrust. And just when she thought she couldn’t take more, he wrapped a hand around her throat—not to choke, but to hold. Anchor. Own. It pushed her over the edge. Her muscles clenched around him as she shook reaching for a release, grabbing and biting to stifle the scream tearing from her throat. He followed with a groan so primal it echoed through her bones, collapsing onto her, his body shuddering with release. They lay there, tangled and sweaty. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, their legs still entwined, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder. Neither spoke. There were no words uttered. The sound of their breath, however, took over the room while Melody thought of many...many things.