The air in the gallery tasted of champagne, money, and barely concealed hunger. White walls glowed under pinpoint spotlights that carved every curve and shadow from Victor Kane’s photographs into something almost obscene. Critics circled like elegant vultures, murmuring approval at the technical mastery while their eyes betrayed the real reason they had come: to drink in the nakedness blown up to life-size, to pretend they were above it.
Elena Voss moved among them in a backless black dress that clung to her like a second skin, the slit climbing high enough to promise scandal with every step. At thirty-eight, she had curated shows that made careers and broken others. Tonight was hers. Victor Kane was the most notorious erotic photographer alive, and she had lured him to her gallery with a
