The transition back to the party was an exercise in psychological warfare. Elias helped Clara arrange her dress, smoothing the emerald satin over her hips and ensuring the straps were perfectly in place. He adjusted his tuxedo, his fingers lingering on the buttons, his expression returning to the mask of the composed, wealthy businessman.
As they stepped through the velvet curtains and back into the bright lights of the Obsidian Gallery, the contrast was jarring. The cold champagne, the muted conversations, the smell of ozone—it all felt artificial now.
"Ah! There you are!" the curator exclaimed, gliding toward them with a triumphant smile. "I was just searching for you. I have the artist, Julian Vane, right here. He's been dying to meet you."
Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. She l
