Chapter 1
669words
Alexander's hand snaked around my waist, his fingers digging possessively into the silk of my emerald gown. His cologne—sandalwood and something metallic—suffocated me as he leaned close, the scent of champagne on his breath making my stomach turn.
"You look stunning tonight," he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear. "Everyone's wondering who you are."
I stiffened under his touch. The diamond bracelet he'd given me last week felt suddenly like a shackle. My free hand instinctively moved to my stomach—still flat beneath the designer fabric, but harboring a secret that had transformed Alexander's attentiveness into something predatory.
"I should check on the Monet," I said, voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "The humidity out here isn't good for it."
Alexander's fingers clamped around my wrist mid-motion, hard enough that I could feel my pulse throbbing against his thumb. His perfect white smile remained fixed, but his eyes—cold blue, like winter sea—narrowed imperceptibly.
"The painting can wait," he said, each word clipped and precise. "The Sinclairs just arrived."
His gaze shifted over my shoulder, his pupils dilating with an intensity I'd once mistaken for love. I turned, the motion making the deck lights blur momentarily, and saw her.
Vivienne Sinclair stepped onto the yacht like she owned it, her white dress billowing in the sea breeze. Diamonds dripped from her ears, catching the light with every calculated toss of her blonde hair. Three men in tailored suits hovered around her like satellites, but her eyes—sharp as cut glass—found Alexander immediately.
The corner of her scarlet mouth curved upward in a smile that held no warmth, only triumph. She whispered something to one of her companions, who laughed obediently while keeping his eyes fixed on her décolletage. Vivienne's gaze slid to me, her perfect eyebrows arching slightly. She looked me up and down with such naked contempt that I felt physically stripped.
Then she deliberately turned her back on me, dismissing my existence entirely.
"I need some air," I murmured, twisting my wrist free from Alexander's grasp. The skin was already reddening where his fingers had been.
He didn't try to stop me. He didn't even look at me. His attention had locked onto Vivienne like a heat-seeking missile finding its target.
I pushed through the crowd of Boston's elite—tech moguls in casual luxury, old money in understated wealth—my heart hammering against my ribs. Champagne sloshed over my fingers as someone bumped my shoulder without apology.
At the stern, I gripped the railing with my free hand, the metal cold against my palm. The Boston skyline twinkled in the distance, so close yet unreachable. Just like the dream life I'd foolishly built with Alexander Blackwood.
I emptied the champagne into the dark water below and watched the glass catch the light as I contemplated joining it.
"Art restoration must be a fascinating field," a deep voice said beside me.
I turned, blinking away the moisture that had gathered in my eyes. Felix Blackwood—Alexander's older cousin—stood an arm's length away, his posture relaxed yet somehow alert. Where Alexander was all polished charm and calculated smiles, Felix exuded quiet confidence. His dark hair was slightly disheveled by the wind, a few strands falling across his forehead in defiance of convention.
"It is," I replied, grateful for the distraction. I straightened my spine, determined not to appear as broken as I felt. "There's something magical about bringing forgotten beauty back to life."
Felix leaned against the railing, the fine material of his tailored suit jacket stretching across broad shoulders. Unlike the other guests who glanced at me with curiosity or dismissal, his gaze held mine with unsettling intensity.
