The elevator ride down to the private events wing took less than thirty seconds, but to Evelina, it felt like a descent into the underworld.
The mirrored walls of the elevator box reflected her infinite shame. She saw herself multiplied a dozen times, a woman in a green silk dress that clung to her skin like a second layer of guilt, standing beside a man who looked like he owned the very air she was struggling to breathe.
Dante didn't look at her. He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the floor numbers tick down. 5… 4… 3…
"Do not fidget," he commanded, his voice low, addressing her reflection in the steel doors. "You are nervous. It makes you look weak. And by extension, it makes me look weak. Stop it."
Evelina froze her hands, which had been picking at the side of her clutch. "I'm not nervous," she whispered, though her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I'm nauseous. There is a difference."
"Swallow it," Dante said.
The doors slid open.
The noise hit her first, a wall of polite, expensive chatter, the clink of crystal, the low hum of a string quartet playing something tragic and classical. Then, the smell, heavy perfumes, old money, and the metallic scent of chilled champagne.
They stepped out into the gallery. It was a magnificent space, walls lined with art that Evelina had studied in textbooks but never touched. But tonight, the art was just background decoration for the sharks circling the room.
Dante didn't ask for permission. He reached out and placed his hand on the small of her back.
It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a brand. His fingers splayed wide against the exposed skin of her lower back, the heat of his palm searing through the cool air. He pulled her into his side, locking her against his hip. It looked romantic to the room. To Evelina, it felt like being handcuffed.
"Walk," he murmured against her ear. "And smile. You are the most expensive thing in this room. Act like it."
He steered her into the crowd.
Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Evelina felt the weight of a hundred eyes sliding over her skin. They weren't looking at her face; they were looking at the dress, at the way it dipped dangerously low in the back, at the proprietary way Dante Valenti held her. They were assessing her value.
"Valenti," a voice boomed.
A man stepped into their path. He was older, thick-set, with a face flushed red from drink and eyes that looked too wet. He wore a tuxedo that strained at the buttons.
Count Sforza.
Evelina recognized him from the dossier Dante had made her memorize, but the photo hadn't captured the smell of stale brandy and desperation that clung to him.
"Count," Dante said. His voice was smooth, charming, and utterly fake. He extended a hand, but he didn't let go of Evelina. "You look well."
"And you look… prosperous," Sforza laughed, a wet, hacking sound. He shook Dante's hand vigorously, his eyes already sliding past Dante to land on Evelina.
His gaze was physical. It crawled over her bare shoulders, lingered on the swell of her breasts, and dropped to her hips. It was the look of a man who was used to buying things he wanted.
"And who is this exquisite creature?" Sforza asked, licking his lips.
Dante's grip on her waist tightened, just a fraction. A warning.
"This is Evelina Thorne," Dante introduced her. "My personal curator. And my companion for the evening."
"Curator?" Sforza raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. He invaded her personal space, smelling of cigars and sweat. "Brains and beauty. A dangerous combination. A pleasure, my dear."
He reached for her hand. Evelina hesitated, repulsion rising in her throat, but Dante nudged her forward with his hip.
She let Sforza take her hand. His palm was damp. He didn't shake it; he raised it to his lips, pressing a wet, lingering kiss to her knuckles. His eyes stayed locked on hers, predatory and gross.
"Charmed," Evelina managed to say, pulling her hand back as soon as politeness allowed. She felt dirty.
"Evelina has been admiring your collection, Count," Dante said smoothly, steering the conversation. "Specifically, the Magdalene."
The trap was set.
Sforza's chest puffed out. "Ah, yes. The Reni. The jewel of my family's estate. It breaks my heart to part with it, truly. But for a man of your taste, Valenti… I make exceptions."
He looked at Evelina. "And what does the expert think? It is magnificent, is it not?"
This was it. The moment of treason.
Evelina looked at the painting hanging on the temporary display wall behind Sforza. It was lit by a spotlight. From here, it looked perfect. The sorrow in Mary Magdalene's eyes, the flow of the drapery.
But she knew the truth. She knew about the zinc white pigment. She knew it was a lie painted by a fraud in 1950.
She looked at Dante. His face was impassive, but his eyes were hard, promising retribution if she failed. She thought of Chloe's medical treatments, funded by the monster standing next to her.
She looked back at Sforza, who was waiting, preening like a peacock.
She forced her lips into a smile. It felt like cracking glass.
"It is…" Evelina started, her voice steady. "It is breathtaking, Count. The brushwork on the hands… the luminosity of the skin tone… it is undeniably the work of a master. It is a rare find."
The lie tasted like bile. She had just prostituted her intellect. She had just sold her professional integrity to help a billionaire cheat a desperate gambler.
Sforza beamed, his face glowing with greed. "You see? She has an eye! A true expert!"
"Indeed," Dante said. His voice was dry, cold. "She sees everything."
"Then we have a deal?" Sforza asked, eager, almost trembling. "Twelve million?"
"Let's discuss the final terms in private," Dante said. "My office is prepared."
"Excellent! Excellent!" Sforza rubbed his hands together.
Dante leaned down to Evelina. "Wait here. Do not move. Do not speak to anyone."
He walked away with Sforza, disappearing toward a private conference room at the back of the gallery.
Evelina was left alone in the crowd. She felt hollowed out. She walked to a waiter passing with a tray and took a glass of champagne, downing half of it in one gulp just to wash the taste of the lie out of her mouth.
"Rough night?"
The voice came from her left.
She turned. A man was standing there. He was younger than the rest of the crowd, perhaps Dante's age, but leaner, sharper. He had dark hair and eyes that looked like they dissected everything they saw. He wore a suit that was cut for movement, not just style. He didn't look like a guest. He looked like security, but expensive security.
"I'm working," Evelina said defensively.
"I know," the man said. He didn't smile. "I'm Luca Rossi. Head of Security for the Valenti Group."
He looked her up and down, not with lust, but with a cold, clinical assessment. He noticed the slight tremble in her hand, the way she favored her right side away from the crowd.
"You lied well," Luca said.
Evelina froze. "Excuse me?"
"The Reni," Luca said, his voice low. "I saw the report you printed in the office upstairs. Zinc white. 1834. You know it's a fake."
Panic spiked in her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb, Miss Thorne," Luca said. "Dante uses people. That's what he does. He's using you to twist the knife into Sforza. I'm just surprised you went along with it. You looked like you had a spine when you walked in."
It was an insult, delivered with a flat, monotone indifference that hurt more than Sforza's leering.
"I did what I had to do," Evelina hissed.
"We all do," Luca said. He looked toward the conference room where Dante and Sforza had vanished. "Just remember… once you start lying for him, you don't stop. He owns your truth now."
Before Evelina could respond, the conference room door opened.
Dante walked out. Sforza was behind him.
The change in the Count was horrifying.
Ten minutes ago, Sforza had been beaming, arrogant, full of bluster. Now, he looked like a man who had just been gutted. His face was gray, draining of all blood. He was sweating profusely, his hands shaking as he adjusted his tie. He looked sick. Broken.
Dante, by contrast, looked energized. He looked like a vampire who had just fed. His eyes were bright, his posture relaxed. He walked straight to Evelina.
He ignored Luca completely. He stepped into Evelina's space, reclaiming her.
"It is done," Dante said.
"What did you do to him?" Evelina whispered, watching Sforza stumble toward the exit, ignoring the guests who tried to greet him.
"I told him the truth," Dante said calmly. "I told him I knew the painting was fake. I showed him your report."
Evelina felt the blood leave her face. "You… you showed him? But I just lied to him! I just authenticated it!"
"Exactly," Dante smiled. It was cruel and sharp. "I let him think he had fooled us. I let him sign the preliminary agreement based on the fraud. And then, once his signature was on the paper committing the sale of a forgery, a felony, by the way, I revealed what I knew."
He reached out and ran a finger along the strap of her green dress.
"I gave him a choice. Go to prison for art fraud and lose his family estate… or sign over his shipping routes to me for ten cents on the dollar."
"You blackmailed him," Evelina breathed. "And you made me the bait."
"You were the honey trap, Evelina. And it worked perfectly."
He looked at her with a terrifying pride. "You were magnificent. You looked him in the eye and lied with the conviction of a saint. It was… arousing."
The word hung between them, heavy and inappropriate.
Evelina felt sick. "I hate you."
"Hate is a useful emotion," Dante said. "It keeps you sharp."
He turned to the room. "Come. The night is young. There is someone else I want you to meet. A rival. I want you to dazzle him, too."
"I want to go back to the room," Evelina said, digging her heels in. "I did your dirty work. Let me go."
Dante's hand shot out. He gripped the back of her neck. It looked like a caress to the room, his fingers tangled in her pinned-up hair, but the pressure was controlling, forcing her to look at him.
"You do not make demands," he whispered, his face close enough to kiss her. "You are here to work. And the work is not done until I say it is done."
Suddenly, a hand touched Evelina's arm.
"Excuse me."
It was a young man, handsome, blond, wearing a tuxedo that was slightly too loud. He was smiling at Evelina, oblivious to the tension radiating off Dante.
"I couldn't help but notice you from across the room," the stranger said. "I'm Julian. I don't believe we've met."
Dante's hand on Evelina's neck tightened. It wasn't painful, but it was a warning. A claim.
The stranger looked at Dante's hand, then at Dante's face. His smile faltered.
"She is busy," Dante said. His voice was ice.
"I was just asking for a dance," Julian stammered, backing off.
"She doesn't dance," Dante said. "She doesn't speak. She belongs to me."
He pulled Evelina closer, so her body collided with his. He stared the young man down until Julian turned pale and hurried away, vanishing into the crowd.
Dante looked down at Evelina. His eyes were dark, pupil-blown, blazing with a sudden, irrational possessiveness that terrified her more than his anger.
"Why did he look at you?" Dante demanded, his voice rough.
"I don't know," Evelina gasped, trying to ease the pressure on her neck. "He just walked up, "
"He looked at your skin," Dante hissed. "He looked at what was mine."
He dragged her toward the exit, moving fast, pulling her along in his wake.
"We are leaving," he announced.
"But you said, you said there was a rival, "
"Plans changed," Dante growled. He shoved the elevator button. "I am done sharing you with this room. I am done watching them undress you with their eyes."
The elevator doors opened. He pushed her inside and hit the button for the penthouse.
As the doors closed, cutting off the noise of the gala, Evelina saw the look on his face. It wasn't the cold calculator anymore. It was something raw. Something unhinged.
He had used her as a tool, humiliated her, forced her to lie… and now he was furious that other men had noticed the weapon he had polished.
"You looked too good," he muttered, backing her into the mirrored corner of the elevator. "That dress… it was a mistake."
"You chose it!" she yelled.
"And now I regret it," he snapped.
He loomed over her, his hands planting on the glass on either side of her head.
"Next time," he whispered, "I will dress you in burlap. I will not have them looking at you like that. You are my curator. My asset. Mine."
Evelina shrank back, her heart pounding in her throat. She had survived the lie. She had survived Sforza.
But she wasn't sure she would survive the man who was looking at her now like he wanted to consume her whole.