“She loves you. She’s just too afraid to admit it!”

Closing my eyes, I stop momentarily. Part of me wants to go back and ask her what she means. I want her words to give me hope, illuminate the darkness I’m drowning in, but I don’t. Instead, I continue walking. I turn my back on Elly and the man I used to be; anger, resentment, jealousy propelling my each step.

I move to stand behind Rachel, who’s now talking to a man. Pushing myself flush against her back, her sweet ass cradling my cock, I pull her long hair to the side and kiss the curve of her neck once, not giving a fuck about the stranger watching us. She trembles under my mouth.

“Hello, Rachel. Miss me?”

She turns to face me, blushing. “You came.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“No, I’m not. I knew you would come.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I caress her blushing cheek with the back of my fingers. “I forgot how lovely you look when you blush like that for me.”

Someone clears his throat, reminding us that we aren’t alone. She licks her lips as though she could taste me there.

“Behave,” she mouths.

“I don’t want to.” I lean in, whispering in her ear, “What I want is to fuck you again.”

“You’re impossible.”

I grin as she shakes her head, hiding a pleased smile. She grabs my hand and spins on her feet until we’re facing her guest, an older man wearing a funky bow tie and bright green glasses. “Carl, I’d like to introduce you to Ronan. He’s the photographer I was telling you about. And Ronan, this is Carl Brunswick, my closest friend and owner of The Jackson.”

Fucking hell. My eyes widen. The Jackson? The Jackson is the most exclusive art gallery in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Honk Kong, Dubai, Tokyo, and Milan. Hell, if the Carl Brunswick takes an interest in you it means that you’ve made it. Not even Edgar with his million dollar paintings has been able to get in The Jackson.

“A pleasure, sir,” I say.

He shakes my hand. “Oh yes, I remember now. Our diamond in the rough.” He pauses, studying my clothes, my hair, my face, and my hands. “He’s beautiful, Rachel. Where did you find him?”

She hesitates. “I met him at Edgar Juarez’s exhibit.”

A sly smile appears on his face. “Really? If my memory doesn’t fail me, which it never does, by the way, I seem to recollect that I waited for you inside the gallery for hours and you never showed up.”

I sense Rachel’s discomfort, so I interrupt them, saying, “It’s my fault. I asked her for a drink before going in.”

“Drinks, eh? Is that what you young people call it nowadays?” He chuckles. “But never mind that. If Rachel says you’re talented, you must be. She has one of the most discerning eyes in the business.” He addresses Rachel, but his sight remains trained on me. “Rachel, honey, if his work is half as good as his face, I have a feeling that your protégé will go far … very far. With a little help from my good old self, of course.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. Champagne toasts. People treating me like a person rather than an afterthought. Women standing too close to me, their hands caressing my arm invitingly, whispering seductive words. I’m not invisible anymore.

I hear you’re a photographer. I would love to see your work.

Rachel introducing me to more important and powerful people. More champagne. More caviar. Cuban cigars. Vintage wines.

Who is he? He’s Rachel’s new boy toy. He’s sumptuous. Some people have all the luck. I hear Carl took an interest in him. I wonder if I could introduce him to my Laura—she loves the artsy type. We should invite him to a dinner party.