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"She is," I agree simply.

Graham whistles low. "Damn, you've got it bad. The great Beckett Sinclair, completely whipped by a woman who was supposed to be just another possession."

I arch an eyebrow. "Careful, Graham."

"Oh, lighten up," he laughs, completely unintimidated. "It's nice to see you actually care about someone besides yourself for once."

"What Graham is trying to say," Sebastian cuts in smoothly, "is that we're happy for you. Both of you."

I nod once, accepting the sentiment for what it is—genuine, if surprising.

"The pieces are remarkable," Sebastian continues, gesturing to the nearest canvas—a storm breaking over water, golden light cutting through darkness. "She's extraordinarily talented."

"Yes," I agree. "She is."

"And already selling," Graham adds, eyeing the red dots with professional interest. "At these prices? Impressive for a debut."

Before I can respond, a new presence joins our circle—Preston Wolfe, silver fox of the Collectors, immaculate in a charcoal suit with a subtle silver tie that matches his perfectly styled hair.

"Gentlemen," he greets us, his voice carrying that distinctiveauthority that comes from generations of wealth and power.

"Preston," I acknowledge with a slight nod. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

His smile is enigmatic. "I always make time for promising new talent." His gaze scans the room, landing briefly on Luna before returning to me. "You've uncovered quite a find, Sinclair. My congratulations."

"Thank you," I reply, noting the careful phrasing. Uncovered, not claimed. Not possessed.

"I've heard some rather unfortunate things happened to Anthony recently," Preston continues, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Quite the scandal brewing."

I take a measured sip of my whiskey. "The hazards of overreaching, I suppose."

"Indeed." His smile takes on a knowing edge. "Some ventures carry more risk than reward."

"It probably works out well for everyone in the end," I offer, watching his reaction carefully. "Some members tend to use the Club for their own personal benefit rather than for the benefit of the Club."

Preston's eyes gleam with what might be approval. "Precisely. Balance must be maintained. Rules must be respected." He inclines his head slightly. "The Collectors will be discussing a replacement soon. Someone with a better understanding of... boundaries."

The message is clear—Baine's fall has been noted, and not entirely mourned. And somehow, I've managed to rise rather than fall in Preston's estimation.

"I look forward to hearing the outcome," I reply, matching his diplomatic tone.

"I'm sure you do." Preston glances once more at Luna, whois now discussing one of her larger pieces with an elderly collector. "She's quite special. I can see why you were so determined to keep her."

Before I can respond, he adds, "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. And Sinclair—well played."

With that, he moves away, seamlessly inserting himself into a conversation with a group of art critics near the bar.

"What the actual fuck did you do?" Graham asks the moment Preston is out of earshot, his expression a mixture of awe and concern.

Sebastian looks equally intrigued, though more restrained in showing it. "I'm also curious what exactly 'well played' refers to."

I open my mouth to deliver a suitably vague response when a commotion near the entrance catches my attention. Voices raised. A woman's startled exclamation. The sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor.

My body tenses instantly, every sense on high alert as I scan the crowd for Luna. She's still by her painting, seemingly unaware of the disturbance, safe for the moment.

"Stay with her," I tell Sebastian without taking my eyes off the entrance. "Don't let her out of your sight."

I don't wait for his acknowledgment before moving through the crowd toward the source of the commotion, Graham falling into step beside me. The guests part before us, conversations faltering as they sense the shift in atmosphere.