Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zoe
The turtleneck was a mistake.
It seemed like a brilliant solution this morning when I was staring at my closet, wondering how to hide the marks in a professional setting. A black turtleneck. Classic. Sophisticated. Completely inappropriate for the unreasonably warm day.
I tug at the collar for the hundredth time, feeling sweat trickle down the back of my neck. The gallery’s climate control is usually perfect, but today it feels like we’re displaying art in a sauna.
“Are you feeling alright, Zoe? You look... feverish.”
I glance up from the catalog I’ve been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes to find Helen, my boss, studying me with narrowed eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, tugging at the collar of the black turtleneck. “Just a little warm.”
“No wonder. It’s eighty degrees outside, and you’re dressed for December.” Helen taps a manicured nail against the catalog. “The Sparne collection isn’t going to catalog itself, you know.”
“Right. Sorry.” I force a smile. “Just distracted this morning.”
Helen raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Clearly.”
As she walks away, I resist the urge to fan myself, and reach for my phone instead. Four missed calls from unknown numbers.
My fingers drift to my neck, tracing the outline of the marks through the fabric.
They don’t feel as angry today. Less hot to the touch, less raised.
Maybe they’re already starting to fade? Maybe this whole nightmare was just one wild night that got blown out of proportion, and in a few days, I’ll be back to my normal, unclaimed beta life.
The thought should be comforting, but something small and traitorous in my chest twinges at the idea. I push the feeling away and focus on the catalog.
The Sparne collection is one of the most important acquisitions we’ve made this year. I should be thrilled to be working on this. Instead, I keep zoning out, lost in memories of four sets of hands, four mouths, four distinct scents wrapping around me like a cocoon...
“Ms. Clarke?” A soft voice pulls me from my inappropriate workplace daydream. “The Davelles are here for their tour.”
I blink at our receptionist, then check my watch. Shit. I completely forgot about the donor tour. Again.
“Thank you, Jade. Tell them I’ll be right there.”
I straighten my turtleneck, smooth my hair, and plaster on my most professional smile before heading to the gallery’s main entrance.
The Davelles are a power couple of the old-money variety. Margaret Davelle is a tiny omega with eyes that miss nothing and a diamond brooch that could probably fund a small nation. Her alpha, Arthur, is tall, stooped, and has the good sense to agree with whatever his omega says.
“Arthur, Margaret, so good to see you,” I greet them with a genuine smile.
“Zoe, dear, you look like you’re about to melt,” Margaret says instead of a hello, her sharp eyes zeroing in on my turtleneck. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Just a devotion to fall fashion,” I lie with a breezy laugh that I hope sounds natural. “Shall we?”
I lead them toward the new exhibition, launching into my well-rehearsed speech.
The tour goes smoothly, with Margaret asking questions about the artist’s investment potential.
Arthur remains quiet beside her, his gaze thoughtful, occasionally nodding or murmuring “Indeed,” in agreement with her statements.
We stop in front of the collection’s centerpiece, a spiral of bronze and glass that seems to change shape as you move around it. “Now this,” I begin, “is Sparne’s exploration of duality. The permanence of the bronze against the fragility of the—”
I trail off. My skin prickles. A new scent has just entered the gallery, cutting through the sterile, climate-controlled air. Spicy, zesty, and so familiar it makes my stomach clench. Ginger. Tristan fucking Sterling.
Margaret’s head tilts, her nose twitching. “My,” she murmurs, eyes scanning the room. “Is there another alpha patron here today? Someone... significant?”
My heart rate kicks up. I refuse to turn around. “I believe so,” I say, my voice only slightly strained. “As I was saying, the fragility of the glass required the artist to—”
“It’s well made,” Arthur Davelle says suddenly, his deep voice cutting through my spiel. He leans in, staring at the sculpture’s base. “Good bones. Margaret likes pieces with good bones.”
Margaret pats his arm, a small, satisfied smile on her face. “He’s right. I do.”
“Well,” a smooth, familiar voice says from right behind me, “you can’t argue with good bones.”
I close my eyes for a single, brief moment, praying for a sinkhole to open up right under my feet. No such luck. I turn, my professional smile feeling stretched to its breaking point.
Tristan Sterling looks... good. Annoyingly good.
Dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal blazer over a simple white t-shirt, he manages to look both casual and like he belongs among the wealthy art patrons.
His dark curls are perfectly styled, and his smile, complete with that devastating dimple, is aimed directly at the Davelles.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. “I was just captivated by your curator’s expertise.”
“Not at all, young man,” Mrs. Davelle beams at him. “Are you an art enthusiast as well?”
“More of a technology enthusiast,” Tristan says with a self-deprecating shrug. “But I’m learning to appreciate the finer things.” His eyes flick to me, and there’s something in them, a hint of nervousness beneath the charm, that catches me off guard.
“Tristan Sterling,” he introduces himself, extending his hand to Mr. Davelle, who perks up immediately at the name.
“Sterling? As in Sterling Solutions?” the older man asks, suddenly engaged.
“The very same,” Tristan confirms.
“Fascinating work you’re doing,” Mr. Anderson says, shaking Tristan’s hand with newfound vigor. “I was just reading about your latest patent...”
And just like that, I’ve lost half my tour to tech talk. Mrs. Davelle rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
“Perhaps we should continue while the boys discuss their toys,” she suggests, linking her arm through mine.
I shoot Tristan a warning look as I lead Mrs. Davelle toward the next exhibit. He responds with a wink that makes my stomach do an unauthorized flip.
The rest of the tour is a blur. I’m hyperaware of Tristan’s presence as he and Mr. Davelle follow behind us. Every time he speaks, his voice seems to resonate directly through my claiming marks, creating a pleasant vibration that’s deeply distracting.
By the time we reach the final piece, my turtleneck feels like it’s slowly strangling me, and I’m fairly certain my face is the same color as the crimson abstract painting we’re standing in front of.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Davelle’s eyes dart between me and Tristan like she’s watching a particularly juicy soap opera, and I wonder, oh God, if she’s seen the PackTrackr alert.
“Well!” She claps her hands together, bracelets jangling.
“I think we’ve seen enough to know we want our name on this exhibition. ”
My shoulders drop half an inch. “That’s wonderful news—”
“Though I do wonder,” she continues, leaning in, “if we might get a private tour with the artist? Perhaps when you’re less... occupied?” Her gaze flicks to Tristan again.
Mr. Davelle chooses that moment to emerge from his intense discussion about—Christ, are they really talking about yacht engine maintenance?
“—but you’ve got to winterize the fuel lines,” he’s saying, jabbing a finger at Tristan’s chest. “Rookie mistake, not doing that.”
Tristan nods. “I’ll take that under advisement, sir.”
Mrs. Davelle hooks her arm through her husband’s. “Arthur, we’re sponsoring the show.”
“Excellent.” He pats her hand absently, then frowns at me. “You should get that turtleneck looked at. Looks like you’re having an allergic reaction.”
Tristan makes a small, choked sound that is definitely a suppressed laugh. I send him a death glare and discreetly jab my elbow backward into what I hope is his side.
“Right!” Mrs. Davelle drags her husband toward the exit. “We’ll just... find Helen ourselves, shall we?”
The moment they’re out of earshot, I turn on Tristan. “Are you insane?” I hiss, swiping at my damp forehead. “You can’t just waltz into my workplace smelling like a damn Christmas candle and—”
“Gingerbread,” he corrects. “I was going for gingerbread.”
“—and start making yacht talk with donors!”
He has the audacity to look pleased with himself. “Worked, didn’t it? They’re sponsoring the show.”
“Despite your help, not because of it.”
“Don’t I get points for bringing your planner back?” He holds up... nothing. His hands are empty.
“You don’t have my planner.” My voice is flat.
“Ah.” He winces, patting his pockets theatrically. “Must have left it in the car.”
Tristan steps closer, his stupid alpha musk wrapping around me. “Admit it. You missed me.”
I jab a finger into his chest. “I missed you like a migraine.”
His hand closes over mine, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “So what you’re saying is, I was on your mind all day, and you couldn’t get rid of me?”
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask, snatching my hand away.
Tristan doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, elegant package wrapped in matte black paper.
“Peace offering,” he says, holding it out to me.
I don’t take it. “You can’t just show up at my workplace.”
“I know.” He has the grace to look slightly abashed. “But I wanted to see you, and I figured a public place was less threatening than showing up at your apartment.”
He juts the package toward me again.
“What is this?” I ask, not taking it.
“Peace offering,” he repeats, holding it out to me.
I still don’t take it. “You could have sent a text. Or an email. Or, radical idea, returned my planner like normal people.”
“Where’s the romance in that?” he asks, his dimple making an appearance. “Besides, I wanted to deliver this personally.”