Page 8 of His to Possess
My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to examine it more closely. But there, surrounded by Chicago's elite, I had to maintain my composure. I couldn't let on how much this meant to me.
Still, I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be the one to authenticate this piece. To have my name attached to such a monumental discovery. The academic circles would buzz about it for years. It could open doors I never even knew existed. But with opportunity came risk. If I was wrong, if this turned out to be a clever fake, it could destroy everything I had worked for.
I took another sip of champagne, using the moment to collect my thoughts. The cool liquid did little to calm the storm raging inside me. Professional instinct warred with ambition, and caution grappled with desire.
This was what I had trained for. This was why I had spent years honing my skills and pouring over art history texts until my eyes blurred. But standing there, faced with the reality of it all, I felt like a novice all over again.
My gaze drifted from the watercolor to its new owner, Mr. Compton. He stood apart from the crowd, an island of calm in the sea of social climbers and art enthusiasts. There was something magnetic about him, a gravitational pull I couldn't quite explain. That made it all more difficult to focus.
His physical presence was undeniable. Tall and imposing, he carried himself with the casual arrogance of a man accustomed to power. His tailored suit hinted at a muscular frame beneath, and his dark hair was meticulously styled. But it was his eyes that truly captivated me—steel gray and piercing, they seemed to cut through the superficial veneer of the room. The few times our gazes had met, he seemed to possess the ability to see right through me. I felt oddly exposed under his intense stare, like all layers of my clothes had been stripped away, and I stood bare before him. And I hadn't even spoken a single word to him. God, what was happening to me? How could a man like that have such an effect on me?
Still, whether I wanted to admit it or not, it was hard to look away from him. I watched as he navigated the crowd, noting how others instinctively deferred to him. A slight nod here, a brief word there, and people parted like the Red Sea. It wasn't just his wealth or status; there was an aura of danger surrounding him, a coiled intensity that set my nerves on edge.
Suddenly, his gaze swept the room and locked onto mine. A jolt of heat coursed through me, and I felt pinned in place by theweight of his stare. There was something primal in those eyes, a hunger that both terrified and excited me. I forced myself to look away with a detached air, but my heart was racing.
I had dealt with powerful men before, especially during my time in Europe—royals even. But Mr. Compton was different. He was rawer, more untamed, I noticed that even without speaking to him. The European elite often hid behind centuries of refinement and tradition. This man? He wore his power like a second skin, unapologetic and unrestrained.
I took a steadying breath, reminding myself of the dangers of getting entangled with someone like him. I had seen how these powerful men operated, how they viewed the world—and the people in it—as things to be owned and controlled. No matter how attractive he might be, I knew better than to let myself be drawn into his orbit. There was a real possibility that, if I was pulled into it, I'd never be able to escape.
Still, I couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement. The Chicago art scene was a different beast from what I was used to. Less bound by tradition, more driven by raw ambition and cutthroat tactics. It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
As I turned back to the paintings, I caught Mr. Compton watching me again. This time, there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. My stomach did a flip, and I silently cursed my body's betrayal. I needed to stay focused and remember why I was there. But even as I tried to redirect my thoughts, I could still feel his gaze on me, like a physical touch.
I wove through the crowd, the gentle clink of flutes and murmur of conversation washing over me. My fingers trailed along the edge of my clutch, a nervous habit I couldn't seem to shake. The opulence of The Ethereal Gallery was a stark reminder of how far I had come, and how quickly it had all nearly fallen apart.
Just months ago, I had been the rising star of the Parisian art scene. Now, here I was in Chicago, starting over. The memory of my hasty departure from Paris sent a shiver down my spine.
I took a deep breath, forcing the thoughts away. That wasn't who I was anymore. I wasn't that naive girl who had let herself be manipulated and used. I was stronger now, wiser. Chicago was my chance to prove it. It was my fresh start, and I had every intention of utilizing it.
My gaze drifted back to the watercolor, and excitement fluttered in my chest. I had always had an eye for the overlooked masterpieces and the hidden gems that others passed by. It was what had made me stand out in Paris, before… everything. Now, that same instinct could be my salvation.
The Art Institute of Chicago. The name alone carried weight, respectability. When they had offered me the position, it had felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. A chance to start fresh, to rewrite my story on my own terms.
As I moved through the auction house, I could feel the eyes on me. Some curious, some appraising, some outright hostile. I held my head high, refusing to let them see how much their scrutiny affected me. Let them wonder, let them gossip. I knew my worth, and I would prove it to them all.
My gaze caught on Mr. Compton again. There was something about him that called to me, a darkness that both terrified and intrigued me. It was a magnetic pull I couldn't seem to snap myself out of—like there was something stronger than logic inviting us toward each other. I had no intention of accepting that invitation, though. Not if there wasn't a very good reason behind it—something beyond the way my body responded to his presence.
I spun around, putting more space between us. Or, at the very least, removing him from my line of sight. I needed that much to be able to focus. One of the waiters moved past me, carryingendless tall glasses of champagne. I took one, taking a much-needed sip that would, hopefully, ease my mind and my nerves. I drew a deep breath, feeling my body relax ever so slightly. I just needed to keep my distance, that was it. With that thought in mind, I turned around.
Suddenly, I was face-to-face with him, the full force of his presence hitting me like a physical blow. Up close, his eyes were even more arresting, cold steel that seemed to pierce right through me. Only now, there was no way out of it. He was so close, so focused on me.
"Mr. Compton," I said, extending my hand with a confidence I didn't entirely feel. "I'm Laurel Bowers. I couldn't help but admire your acquisitions this evening. Congratulations on both the watercolor and the Volkov."
His hand engulfed mine, warm and firm. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm at the contact, and I had to fight to keep my expression neutral.
"Ms. Bowers," he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through my chest. It was even deeper than I expected. "What a pleasure to meet you. I understand you're new to Chicago's art scene?"
I nodded, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "That's right. I've recently joined the Art Institute of Chicago as an assessor and consultant."
His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Welcome to our little corner of the art world, then. I'm always happy to see fresh perspectives among us. What do you think of the watercolor?"
I was caught off guard by his sudden shift in demeanor. "The watercolor?" I repeated, my heart rate picking up. My gaze drifted toward it, and I forced myself to swallow the lump that formed in my throat. I couldn't let him see how much thatpainting affected me. "It's beautiful, I suppose. It's too bad it's been unclaimed so far."
His eyes narrowed, and I felt pinned in place by the intensity of his stare. "I find that difficult to believe. You've been eyeing that painting all evening. And just now, you congratulated me on it specifically. So tell me, what makes you think it's a Turner?"
My mind raced. How could he have picked up on my suspicions? I had thought I had been careful and professional. But something in his tone told me he wasn't just making conversation. He wanted answers.
I took a steadying breath, trying to buy myself time. "I simply admired your taste in acquisitions. The watercolor is a beautiful piece, regardless of its provenance."
