Sally adjusted the final spotlight with a small, precise twist of her wrist. The beam caught the bronze sculpture just right—sharp shadows carving the metal into something almost violent. The gallery hummed with low conversation, clinking glasses, the occasional polite laugh. She wore black: tailored blazer, pencil skirt hugging her hips, heels that clicked with authority across the polished concrete. Thirty-one years of keeping people at exactly the right distance had taught her how to command a room without ever raising her voice.
She felt eyes on her before she saw him.
Rafe moved through the crowd like smoke—caterer’s black shirt rolled to the elbows, inked knuckles flexing as he refilled champagne flutes from a chilled bottle. Twenty-eight, maybe. Quiet smirk that never quite reache
