The gallery assistant returned. He handed the heavy black card back to Dayami along with a thick receipt.

Dayami slid the card back into her purse. The satisfying click of the clasp closing echoed in the tense air.

Helen Mercer spun around, her heels digging into the polished floor. She grabbed Walter Chandler's arm and dragged him toward the exit. The heavy glass door slammed shut behind them.

Dayami let out a slow breath. The tight band around her ribs loosened. She looked at the assistant.

"Please put the painting back on the wall."

She turned around, ready to walk out and find a taxi.

"Ms. Cantrell? Or should I say, Nora Aron?"

A smooth, deep voice came from behind her.

Dayami's spine locked. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Nora Aron was the name she used when she dealt with art suppliers and obscure gallery owners. It was the shield she used to keep the Hamilton name away from her work.

She turned around slowly.

A man in a perfectly tailored navy suit walked toward her. His expression was warm, his eyes intelligent and observant.

"I recognized you," he said, stopping a polite distance away. "I am Iaan Glass. The curator here. You attended our pre-opening four years ago. Your insights on Rothko were unforgettable."

Dayami's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He was an old acquaintance. He did not know her real secret.

She offered a small, polite nod. "Mr. Glass. It has been a while."

Iaan waved the assistant away. He looked at the empty space where Helen had been standing.

"That was quite a performance. But I suspect you are not as ruthless as you appear." He pointed to the painting. "You could have kept it."

Dayami rubbed her thumb over her bare ring finger, a habit she could not break.

"I just needed some quiet. I am glad they got what they wanted in the end."

Iaan's eyes softened. He looked at her face, really looked at her, and Dayami felt exposed.

"Art should bring peace, not conflict. I am sorry you had to experience that here."

He gestured toward a small, semi-private seating area in the corner of the gallery.

"Please, sit for a moment."

Dayami followed him. She sank into the plush leather chair. Iaan poured a glass of water from a glass pitcher and handed it to her.

She took a sip. The cold water soothed her dry throat. She looked up and her eyes locked onto a different painting hanging on the far wall.

"The use of light there is incredible," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Iaan smiled. "You have a great eye. That is a piece by The Canvas Ghost."

Dayami's fingers tightened around the glass. The water rippled. The Canvas Ghost. That was her.

She forced her facial muscles to remain perfectly still. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"A very mysterious artist. No one knows who he or she is."

Iaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Indeed. Their work is nearly impossible to acquire. They sell on their own terms, through a blind trust. We have been trying to get in touch for years."

Dayami's pulse beat rapidly in her ears. She had no idea her work was so highly valued here.

"What is so special about them?" she asked, keeping her voice flat.

Iaan looked at the painting. His expression turned serious, almost reverent.

"The Canvas Ghost does not just paint landscapes. They paint solitude. They paint the quiet dignity of enduring a storm. Their work has soul."

Dayami's stomach flipped. A sudden tremor went through her, a feeling she had not experienced in years. It was not sadness, but a painful, shocking sense of being seen. For three years, she had lived in a penthouse with a man who looked right through her. Now, a stranger was looking at a canvas and seeing her exact soul.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She had to clench her fists tightly under the table to keep her composure.

Iaan watched her. He did not ask why she looked like she was about to cry.

"Nora," he said softly. "You look like you are going through something. I do not mean to pry, but if you ever need a friend to talk to..."

Dayami looked up. The genuine concern in his eyes made her chest ache.

"Thank you, Iaan."

Iaan checked his watch. "I was about to go for dinner. Would you care to join me? We can talk more about art. Or anything else."

Dayami hesitated. She had never had dinner with another man since she married Elek. Her entire life was dictated by Elek's schedule.

Then she remembered Elek's cold back this morning. She remembered his hand shoving her against the glass.

She set the water glass down on the table.

"I would love to."

Elek Hamilton cut into his rare steak. The knife scraped against the expensive ceramic plate. He chewed the meat, but it tasted like ash in his mouth.

He sat in the private dining room of a three-Michelin-star restaurant in Manhattan. Across from him, his friend Zev Kagan was talking rapidly about a hostile takeover in the tech sector.

Elek heard none of it. His brain kept replaying the scene from his bedroom.

I want a divorce.

The words buzzed in his ears like a persistent fly. It was absurd. She had everything. She had his name, his money, his penthouse. Why was she acting out?

Zev stopped talking. He tapped his fork against his wine glass.

"What is eating you, Elek? You have been staring at that steak for ten minutes."

Elek dropped his knife. He picked up his glass of red wine and took a long swallow. The alcohol burned the back of his throat.

"Just some noise at home."

Zev leaned back in his chair. A knowing smile touched his lips.

"Noise has a name, I assume? Let me guess. Dayami."

Elek did not answer. Zev was one of the few people who knew the marriage was a transaction.

Zev's smile faded. He lowered his voice.

"My security detail, who handles the clinic's VIP protection, flagged that your wife is a regular patient there. She has been going to therapy for months."

Elek's jaw tightened. He adjusted his cuffs, pulling the fabric sharply.

"A therapist? How cliché. Another way to burn my money and get sympathy."

Zev shook his head. "I do not know, man. Maybe you should take it seriously. She is not the same girl you married."

Elek let out a cold, dismissive laugh.

"She is exactly what I married her for. A beautiful, quiet accessory. If she has forgotten that, I will have to remind her."

His phone vibrated on the table. He ignored it. He refused to let Zev see that Dayami's behavior was getting under his skin.

A waiter opened the heavy wooden door of the private room to clear the plates.

Elek looked up, annoyed by the interruption. He opened his mouth to tell the waiter to leave.

His eyes caught movement in the main dining room through the open doorway. His gaze locked onto a table near the window.

His lungs stopped working.

Dayami was sitting there. She was wearing the same beige coat she had on this morning. But her face was completely different. She was smiling. Her shoulders were relaxed.

And she was not alone.

A man in a navy suit sat across from her. The man leaned in, pouring wine into Dayami's glass. He said something, and Dayami laughed.

Elek felt a violent surge of heat rush straight to his head. The blood pounded in his temples.

He had left her in the penthouse this morning, demanding a divorce. And now she was here, laughing with another man in a public restaurant.

Zev followed Elek's line of sight. Zev let out a low whistle.

"Well. That is unexpected."

Elek's fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass. The thin crystal groaned under the pressure.

His mind worked rapidly, connecting dots that did not exist. She wanted a divorce. She had a new man. She was securing her next meal ticket before she even filed the papers.

A dark, ugly feeling clawed at his stomach. Jealousy and rage mixed into a toxic sludge in his veins. She was his wife. She belonged in his penthouse.

"What are you going to do?" Zev asked, his voice cautious.

Elek did not look at Zev. He kept his eyes fixed on the man pouring wine for his wife.

He saw the man smile at Dayami.

Elek stood up. The heavy chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. The sound made the waiter jump.

"Excuse me," Elek said. His voice was dangerously quiet.

He walked out of the private room. His strides were long and purposeful. He headed straight for Dayami's table.

Dayami took a sip of her wine. Iaan had just finished a ridiculous story about an art collector who accidentally bought a forgery. A genuine smile stretched across her face. Her chest felt lighter than it had in years.

Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over the table. The warm ambient light of the restaurant was blocked out.

Dayami looked up.

Elek stood right next to her chair. He looked down at her. His dark eyes were completely black, devoid of any light. The air around him felt cold and heavy, pressing down on her shoulders.

The smile froze on her face. The wine turned to acid in her stomach.

Iaan noticed the shift in the atmosphere immediately. He put his fork down and stood up.

"Sir, can I help you?" Iaan asked, his tone polite but firm.

Elek did not even glance at Iaan. He kept his dead eyes fixed on Dayami.

"We are leaving."

It was not a question. It was an absolute command.

Dayami's fingers gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned white. She forced herself to breathe.

"Elek, I am having dinner with a friend."

"Friend?" Elek's upper lip curled into a sneer. He finally shifted his gaze to Iaan, looking at him like he was garbage on the street. "Is that what they are calling it these days?"

Iaan frowned. He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Dayami.

"I think you are making my friend uncomfortable."

Elek's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out.

"Stay out of what does not concern you. This is between me and my wife."

He hit the word wife hard. It cracked like a whip in the quiet restaurant.

Dayami heard the clinking of silverware stop at the surrounding tables. People were staring. The last thing she wanted was a public spectacle.

She looked at Iaan. "I am sorry, Iaan."

She stood up. She looked at Elek. "Can we not do this here?"

Elek did not answer. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. His fingers dug into her fragile bones. Pain shot up her arm.

He pulled her away from the table. He did not let her grab her coat. He dragged her toward the exit.

Iaan moved to follow them, but two large men in dark suits stepped forward from the main entrance where they had been waiting. Elek's bodyguards blocked Iaan's path instantly.

Elek pulled Dayami out the front doors and shoved her into the back of his waiting Bentley. He climbed in after her and slammed the door.

The drive back to the penthouse was completely silent. The air in the car was so thick Dayami could barely pull it into her lungs.

The moment the elevator doors opened into the penthouse, Elek grabbed her wrist again. He yanked her into the massive living room.

Mrs. Higgins and two maids were standing near the hallway. They immediately dropped their heads and scurried away, disappearing like ghosts.

Elek let go of her. Dayami stumbled forward, her bare arms wrapping around her waist. She rubbed her throbbing wrist.

Elek ripped his tie off his neck and threw it on the floor. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He looked like a wild animal pacing in a cage.

He walked toward her, backing her up until her spine hit the cold wall.

"So this is it." His voice was a harsh whisper. "This is why you want a divorce."

He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her.

"You found a replacement before you even filed the papers."

Dayami stared at him. The accusation was so absurd it knocked the breath out of her.

"You think I want a divorce because of him? You really think it is about another man?"

Elek leaned his face down. She could smell the red wine on his breath.

"Tell me, Dayami. How long has it been going on? Does he make you laugh like that often?"

His chest heaved. He was furious, completely consumed by the idea that someone else was touching his property.