Chapter 7: The Gallery Seduction
The champagne was too sweet, bubbling against Emily’s tongue like a lie. She held the flute too tightly, her knuckles pale. Nathan’s hand hadn’t left the small of her back since they entered the gallery. It was a brand through the thin silk of her blue dress.
“The use of negative space here is provocative, don’t you think?” Nathan murmured, his lips close enough to her ear that his breath stirred her hair. He wasn’t looking at the monolithic marble sculpture. He was looking at the pulse fluttering in her throat.
“Yes,” Emily said, the word barely audible. The sculpture was a series of sleek, interlocking forms. It felt cold. His hand felt like fire.
From across the room, Sarah watched. She swallowed the last of her champagne, the empty glass a crystal weapon in her hand. Her eyes tracked her sister’s nervous smile, the way she leaned infinitesimally into Nathan’s touch. Pathetic. And exhilarating.
Sarah pulled her phone from her clutch. Her thumbs moved with swift, surgical precision.
Sarah: Text Emily and tell her you have to work late tomorrow. I've got plans for you.
She sent it, then turned her attention back to Emily and Nathan. Things were moving along splendidly. She saw Emily look at her phone and saw her confused look. Emily texted a quick reply and turned her attention back to Mark.
Good, now the opportunity was wide open, Sarah thought with a smile. She caught Nathan's eye and winked at him from across the room letting him know the coast was clear for tomorrow night.
Nathan gave Sarah an almost imperceptible nod before turning his full, smoldering attention back to Emily. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate arc over the silk covering her spine. “All this art is giving me a thirst,” he said, his voice a low hum meant only for her. “But not for champagne.”
He guided her away from the sculpture, his grip becoming more possessive. They moved past the crowd, the chatter fading into a blur of color and noise. Emily’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, her mind a riot of Sarah’s words from the café—a little secret of your own—and Mark’s distant, preoccupied eyes.
Nathan stopped near a secluded alcove, shadowed from the main room by a heavy velvet curtain. The noise of the gallery was muffled here. “I want to see you without this… crowd,” he said. His gaze dropped to her lips. “Without the pretense.”
“Nathan, I…” Emily started, but her protest was breathy, weak.
“Tomorrow night,” he interrupted, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw. His fingers were warm, insistent. “There’s a little trattoria in Trastevere that doesn’t exist on any tourist map. The wine is rough, and the pasta is perfection.” He leaned closer, and she could smell the juniper on his breath from the gin he’d been drinking. “Say you’ll let me take you there.”
The invitation hung in the space between them, thick and tangible. It was a specific time, a specific place. It was a date. This wasn't an abstract fantasy anymore; it was a plan. Guilt sliced through her, sharp and familiar, but it was immediately smothered by a hotter, more compelling wave of pure want. It was the same want that had flickered in her eyes over cappuccinos as Sarah had whispered about him.
He watched the war play out across her face. “Just dinner, Emily,” he lied smoothly, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “Just talk.”
She knew it was a lie. The promise in his touch was for something far more visceral than conversation. She thought of Mark’s text, the curt ‘working late’ that had arrived just minutes ago, a key turning in a lock Sarah had expertly oiled. The path was clear, and her resistance, starved for excitement and attention, crumbled to dust.
“Yes,” she whispered. The word felt like a surrender and a victory all at once.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Nathan’s face. “Good.” He dipped his head, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, she thought he would kiss her right there. He only let his lips brush the shell of her ear. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something you won’t mind getting wrinkled.”
He pulled back, winked, and melted back into the gallery crowd, leaving her alone in the alcove. Emily stood rooted, the ghost of his breath on her skin, the phantom pressure of his hand on her back. From her vantage point, Sarah watched her sister’s stunned, flushed stillness and took a slow, satisfying sip of a fresh glass of champagne. The first move was made. The board was set.