Chapter 8

The air in the loft still tasted like turpentine and expensive champagne, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of my throat. It was the smell of excess, of art that had been consumed and discarded, of a night where the rules of the real world had been suspended for a few brief, dizzying hours. But now, the music had died down. The chatter of the elite crowd had thinned to a polite murmur, and the lights had been dimmed from blinding white to a warm, amber glow that made the scattered canvases look like sleeping giants. I stood near the large window, my fingers tracing the cold glass, watching the city lights below blur into streaks of gold and silver. My heels ached, a dull throbbing that served as a grounding reminder that I was no longer floating in that heady, drug-like euphoria of his gaze. I wore a simple slip dress, silk the color of midnight, which had been artfully disheveled during the evening’s festivities. It felt like a second skin, clinging to the heat that still radiated from my core, a secret fire waiting to be stoked again. Behind me, the soft shuffle of feet