Framed
Chapter 1
It was rare for Cole Dalton to be in anything resembling a good mood at a high society party. Being in such a mood at such a party while Mother was present? That was on par with a comet passing during a total solar eclipse on a day when every politician on earth was honest.
But here he was, standing in a tuxedo with a champagne flute in his hand while Mother waxed annoying about her knowledge of art.
Like the others, he nodded along, a phony smile on his face while she explained to the other guests that the art world was on the brink of a massive cubism revival.
She fancied herself a savant when it came to understanding all things art, and she never missed an opportunity to trot out her genius for others to admire.
Normally, that annoyed the ever-loving hell out of Cole. To some degree, it did tonight. After all, he’d heard this entire monologue three times since they’d arrived, and dinner hadn’t even been served yet.
All part of the plan, though.
He brought up his drink for a sip, letting his sleeve slide back just enough to check the time on what everyone else in the room would believe to be a platinum Rolex.
Thirteen past seven.
Christ, this evening was going to last forever, wasn’t it?
Rolling the champagne around in his mouth, he lowered the glass and reminded himself to relax. At least no one would be able to see how agitated he felt or how eager he was to do something already. Though impatience made his spine itch, he held on to his practiced facade of calm indifference.
“The postmodernists strayed away from cubism,” Mother was saying.
“They embraced the freedom it brought into art, but left the methods, techniques, and aesthetics behind.” She stood a little straighter, not even being subtle about preening in the glow of her own brilliance.
“The new generation of artists—they see the genius and the freedom in it.” She raised her glass and smiled.
“We’re about to enter a renaissance of post-postmodern cubism.
” She didn’t add anything like “I’m sure of it” or “just wait and see.” As far as Mother was concerned, her words stood on their own, and there was no need to persuade anyone to believe them.
“That sounds interesting, Lucille.” Sylvia Bernard, CEO of the largest chain of art galleries in the world, sounded anything but interested.
“I suppose we’ll see what happens.” She smiled thinly as she brought up her own champagne for a sip.
“I quite believe that in this era of conflict, uncertainty, and environmental disaster, we’re moving toward an era of ultrarealistic fantasy in real-world settings.
” She gestured with her glass. “Lush landscapes. Seascapes with clean, clear water. Peaceful, serene scenes of—”
“Perhaps in the world of decorating doctors’ offices and corporate hallways,” Mother interrupted. “But the art world doesn’t go for pretty or comfortable.” She gave a haughty little laugh. “That’s hardly what true artists trouble themselves with.”
As Mother and Sylvia sparred, Anya Crittenden, heiress to the Hawes-Crittenden fashion empire, smiled as much as her excessive filler and Botox allowed, though her eyes had glazed over fifteen minutes ago.
Her husband, Hans, kept glancing at a nearby sculpture as if sizing it up as a potential weapon; whether to bludgeon Mother or himself, Cole couldn’t be sure.
Beside them, cryptocurrency tycoon Carlo Cinelli’s expression was admirably placid, but much like Anya’s, his eyes gave him away.
Cole was tempted to snap a picture of Cinelli and post it to social media with the caption screaming internally.
Their reactions amused him enough to keep his own smile firmly in place. From the irritation sparking in their eyes and the way Sylvia looked on the verge of turning her champagne flute into a shiv, Mother was serving her purpose perfectly.
Not deliberately, of course. He hadn’t told her why he’d brought her as his plus-one.
“It’s an art event,” he’d said last week. “Of course I’ll take the person I know who’s most knowledgeable about art.”
That was all it had taken, and now she was doing precisely what he’d banked on her doing—making the rounds, strutting like a peacock, and guaranteeing that most of the conversations tonight would be about “that obnoxious Lucille Dalton.” Few things could distract the wealthy elite like a reason to judge the absolute fuck out of someone for deviating from the strict social norms of high society.
Cole was handing them both, and from the side-eyes that kept coming their way, it was working.
He smiled to himself as he took another sip of champagne. Patience was the hardest part of his job, but satisfaction was the perfect salve; even as the plan took its sweet time unfolding, he savored every person who stepped into his carefully spun web.
Eventually, Sylvia feigned a need to bow out of the conversation to speak to someone who had allegedly just walked in.
Anya and Hans seized the opportunity to exit stage left.
Carlo was just… gone. One minute he was beside Sylvia, jaw working as he no doubt weighed if his lawyers could get him out of a murder charge. The next, he’d vanished.
Without batting an eye, Mother moved on to the next crowd. She was oblivious to the subtle oh God, not this insufferable windbag flickering across everyone’s expressions. Then it was all air kisses and schmoozing before “Oh, darlings, let me tell you what I foresee next in the art world…”
Cole wondered how many people in this room would be able to hear the word “cubism” after tonight without developing an eye twitch.
A subtle glance around the party confirmed what he’d suspected—a lot more side-eyes were coming their way. People were talking behind their hands and glasses. Heads were shaking. Eyes were rolling. Guests were leaning in, probably eager to be filled in on the gossip.
Mother was the talk of the crowd. Exactly as planned.
He drained his drink, then touched her elbow. She waved him away without missing a beat in her monologue. With a practiced sigh—the exasperated one of a son both embarrassed by his mother and tired of being ignored—he turned to the people Mother was speaking to.
Gertrude Meckling was difficult to read.
She might’ve been slipping into a coma, dissociating to her happy place, or held in thrall by Mother’s boredom spell.
Whatever the case, she didn’t notice Cole.
Beside her, Howard Stone was flicking his gaze around the room as if desperately seeking an escape or lethally mortified to be seen in this conversation; quite possibly both. He also didn’t acknowledge Cole.
Belinda Jones, however, caught his eye.
He made a gesture that would convey I’m stepping away. She nodded, and he thought some envy crept into her expression.
Cole just smiled at her. Envy all you want, love. You only have to put up with her for a few minutes.
Then he ducked out of the conversation and wove through the crowd. Numerous sympathetic looks came his way. A few people stopped their conversations as if they were afraid he’d overhear them and come to Mother’s defense.
No, no, carry on. By all means, carry on.
He flashed genial smiles as he passed, pretending not to have the faintest clue that she was social faux pas persona non grata. As if that was anything new.
Instead, he shifted his attention away from the people and to their surroundings.
The party was being held in the gilded mansion of one Harry James Alders, multibillionaire founder of a massive global empire of picture framing stores.
Cole had always been dubious, wondering aloud more than once how someone could get that rich off that business model.
He suspected the truth involved shell companies, front businesses, and probably some kind of smuggling company.
His sycophants insisted he just made brilliant investments, especially since he’d expanded—after making billions through “picture framing”— into venture capitalism. Mmkay, then.
Alders was, ironically, the kind of person Mother spoke of in hushed tones behind her hand or champagne flute.
“He’s new money,” she’d told Cole, derision dripping from every stage-whispered word. “Has to make sure everyone sees just how rich he is.” She’d tutted and rolled her eyes. “Tacky. Just tacky.”
Cole had to agree with that to some extent.
As much as he tried not to adopt the snobbery of his generationally wealthy snake pit of a family, he could see why they turned up their noses at people who acted rich the way Alders did.
The massive collection of custom supercars.
The fleet of private jets. Buying the largest mansion in the entire state, demolishing it, and rebuilding it with an additional twenty-thousand square feet.
Gilding so goddamned many surfaces that his interior décor had actually driven up the price of gold leaf.
And then there was the reason Cole had come here in the first place:
Because Harry James Alders was the owner of one of the world’s largest private collections of art and antiquities.
He’d managed to get his greedy paws on some pieces of treasure recovered from centuries-old shipwrecks.
He’d acquired paintings and sculptures by the masters.
Like, the actual masters—rumor had it he was one Michelangelo away from owning work by all four of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
People weren’t even bothering to show up for auctions of major pieces anymore because they knew he or his proxy bidder would be there to snatch up anything worthwhile.