Chapter 5

The private gallery at Sotheby's was buzzing with the low hum of money and influence. Erin stood at the center of it all, a vibrant slash of crimson in a sea of black and navy. Her backless dress was a bold statement, a world away from the pale, conservative gowns Crockett had always preferred for her.

She held a flute of champagne, but she wasn't drinking. She was holding court.

A circle of young, hungry artists and models surrounded her, drawn to her like moths to a flame. She wasn't just the beautiful wife of Crockett Winters tonight. She was a patron.

Using the knowledge from her past life, she moved from one painting to another, offering quiet, insightful critiques that revealed a depth of knowledge no one knew she possessed. She spoke of an obscure artist's brushwork, predicting his rise. She discussed the market potential of a sculptor everyone else was ignoring.

And then she would signal to her newly hired assistant, who would discreetly finalize the acquisitions she had pre-funded at dawn.

She was no longer an accessory. She was the main event.

A blond, impossibly handsome model leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear as he complimented her diamond earrings. The move was audacious, familiar. In her old life, she would have flushed and stammered, stepping away in a panic.

Tonight, she simply smiled, a cool, self-possessed expression. She raised her glass in a silent toast, maintaining a perfect, polite distance.

It was then that the grand doors to the gallery were thrown open with a crash that silenced the entire room.

Crockett Winters stood framed in the doorway, his face a thundercloud of controlled rage. His eyes, cold and dark, swept the room until they landed on her. On the circle of admirers. On the blond model who was still standing far too close.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

He couldn't name the emotion that ripped through him. It wasn't jealousy-that was too simple, too human. It was the pure, unadulterated fury of a monarch watching a prized possession, something he owned, being touched and admired by the common rabble. His canary was not only singing a new song, but she was doing it for an audience, and the sight of it, the sheer audacity, made him see red.

The crowd parted before him as he strode into the room, his presence sucking all the air out of the elegant space. The model took one look at Crockett's face and took a hasty step back, melting into the crowd.

Erin turned slowly, as if she had been expecting him all along. There was no surprise on her face, no fear.

She raised her champagne flute in a small, mocking salute. A ghost of a smile played on her lips.

That smile broke his control.

He didn't care who was watching. He crossed the remaining distance, his heavy footsteps echoing on the polished floor. He stopped directly in front of her, his height and fury casting a palpable shadow.

He didn't speak. He simply reached out and clamped his hand around her wrist, his grip like a steel manacle. The delicate bones of her wrist ground together under the pressure.

Erin's brow furrowed in a flicker of pain, but her expression remained maddeningly serene.

"Come with me," he bit out, the words a low growl torn from his throat.

He was going to drag her out of here. He was going to take her home and lock her away, back in the cage where she belonged.

The entire room held its breath, watching the silent, brutal drama unfold.

Erin looked at his face, twisted with a rage she knew was rooted in his shattered pride, and a cold, triumphant satisfaction settled in her heart.

The game was just beginning.