I nod, even if my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Smile.
Breathe.
Don’t think about Jude seeing photos of this.
Across the room, Rook turns slightly—and for just a second, his gaze flicks toward us, and something sharp passes through his eyes.
Micah doesn’t hesitate. He steps in with an easy smile, posture relaxed. “Rook,” Micah says, offering his hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here, but I guess that tracks.”
Rook looks at the hand first. Then at Micah’s face. His eyes narrow—not hostile, but not friendly, either. But finally, after a beat, he takes the handshake. “Micah Prescott,” he says. His voice is smooth. “Still breathing. I see that hasn’t changed.”
Micah’s smile doesn’t falter. “Somehow.”
“Still Nolan’s bitch?” he asks casually.
Micah snorts. “No. Thank hell.”
Rook’s gaze flicks to me. Then Heather. It lingers there longer than I like—not in a sexual way. In acatalogingway. “And who did you bring with you?” he asks.
Micah turns slightly, placing himself half a step in front of us. “Friends,” he says. “Actually, do you have a moment? Somewhere quieter?”
Rook studies him again. The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smile. He’s probably in his mid-thirties and would be a handsome man if he weren’t so damn intense. Just knowing he deals in the darkness makes me feel on edge. He gestures lazily toward a massive painting along the far wall—dark oils, violent brushstrokes, something raw and furious barely contained beneath layers of polish.
“My work,” he adds, eyes flicking back to us. “Do you like it?”
The question lands squarely on Heather and me. Heather nods immediately with a warm, genuine smile. “It’s intense,” she says. “I particularly enjoy how it feels like it’s trying to escape the frame.”
I almost laugh at how refined she's trying to make herself sound.
Rook’s brows lift, just a fraction. “Good eye, lovely.”
My turn. I swallow, forcing my voice steady as I study the piece. “It feels honest,” I say. “Uncomfortable. Like it doesn’t care if you’re ready to look at it. It portrays a truth you likely aren’t ready to see. Very reflective of the real world.”
His eyes flash. “Exactly,” he says. He glances around once, then gestures toward a side corridor partially hidden by a marble column. “Come. We can talk where the parasites aren’t listening.”
We follow him, music dulling as we move farther from the main gallery. We stop near a recessed alcove where the lighting is low, and the walls are lined with sketches rather than finished pieces.
Private enough.
“Parasites?” I ask, genuinely intrigued by that comment.
Rook turns back to us, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Yeah. Most of those people in there are dressed in ugly fucking clothes whose cost could solve a lot of goddamn problems in this country. But instead, they parade them around, feeling fancy just because they’re wearing someone’s name.”
My eyebrows rise, and I nod in agreement. “Huh, I like that.”
He stares at my face. “All right,” he says. “You’ve got my curiosity. And about five minutes of my time.”
Micah looks at me.
That’s the cue. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might just stutter and stop. My hands feel cold. My mouth is dry.For a split second, doubt claws up my spine—What if he laughs? What if he says no? What if I make this worse?
Then I see Jude’s face in that photo with Adriana. Dead-eyed. Empty.Gone.And I step forward, into his personal space.
“My name is Emma Easton,” I say. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “I am here to ask a favor for Jude Graves.”
Rook’s expression changes instantly, like I’ve struck a nerve. “I know who you are,” he says quietly.