The Obsidian Gallery smelled of expensive ozone and cold champagne. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a panoramic view of the city, where skyscrapers pierced a bruised purple twilight. Inside, the elite of the city drifted like ghosts in silk and wool, their voices a muted hum that echoed against the polished concrete floors.
Elias adjusted the cuff of his black tuxedo, his gaze locked on Clara. She stood three feet away, pretending to study a minimalist sculpture of twisted chrome. Her dress was a slip of emerald satin that clung to every curve, the fabric shimmering under the recessed spotlights. The low back exposed a expanse of creamy skin that made Elias’s throat go dry.
He stepped closer, the scent of her vanilla perfume hitting him like a physical blow. He didn't touch her, but
