The art exhibition had been amazing.
Adam had outdone himself.
Every wall had been covered with his work—bold paintings, soft paintings, abstract pieces, portraits, colors layered over colors until every piece looked like it carried a story.
The gallery had been full.
Artists.
Businesspeople.
Collectors.
Journalists.
People who wanted to buy Adam’s paintings.
People who wanted to speak to Adam.
People who wanted photographs with him.
And, of course—
Alexander Hawthorne.
But the fascinating part of the evening had not been the art.
It had been Alexander.
More specifically—
The way Alexander looked at Adam.
Because Alexander had not looked at me.
Not once.
Well—
He looked at me when we spoke.
He smiled.
He discussed our business partnership.
He introduced me to several
