CHAPTER 9

“How did you find Peltz’s exhibition?” she’d asked casually. The question lightly hung between them, barely brushing the air. His gaze drifted from the empty cup in his hand to the breeze brushing Pearl’s curls toward her cheek. “Oh that was unforgettable,” he said. “That was the night the Peltz family broke a sales record, wasn’t it? Of course. I remember—the Warhol piece went for almost double the estimate. That caused quite a chaos backstage.” Her heart thudded. She hadn't expected him to say that. Not with such ease. Not with such accuracy. She straightened a little on the chair, blinking against the sudden rush of memory. Roaring applause, the champagne laughter, the gold-laced catalogue in her palm. That was her night. Her chaos. Her victory. Her ruin. “You were there,” she said before she could stop herself. He didn’t seem to notice the shift in her voice. His eyes didn’t seem surprised, no flicker of recognition passed through them. Whatever role she played that night