Waiters navigated the crowd, carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes.

I walked to the media table near the entrance to check in with my assistant, Sarah.

“How is the press turnout?” I asked.

“Excellent,” Sarah said, handing me a clipboard. “The reporters from the financial journals are already here.”

“Good,” I said. “Keep them in the designated press area until the auction begins.”

I took the clipboard and walked toward the gallery wall where the art pieces were displayed.

The paintings were mostly abstract, bright splashes of color against stark white temporary walls.

As I walked, I heard a familiar, smooth laugh.

I turned my head.

Tristan was standing near a large oil painting, surrounded by a group of older men in expensive suits.

He wore a bespoke tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.

His hair was combed back, and he smiled with the easy confidence of a man who owned the room.

Beside him stood Khloe Dupont.

She wore an emerald silk gown that shimmered under the chandeliers, her throat adorned with a thick diamond necklace.