ty. Eve sat at a corner table, shielded by a high partition of lush greenery. It

ier watch. Andre was

e. He was an artist. Time was a fluid concept to him, something to be bent rathe

cloth. A notification from a celebr

turns. Famed Artist Andre Wilcox

finger hovered over the

d the not

ing through the arrivals terminal, looking tan and rugged. But he wasn't alone. Tucked

n. His ex-

opped, a physical sensation of falling. Why was Cinda

is way, M

from the other side of the

ct, thank you,

e's

ldn't move. She sat paralyzed, listening as two people slid into th

emale voice purred. Cinda

d of fabric rustli

s tone was low, intimate-a tone Eve had heard in h

cking lilt. "Is that Franks heiress still obsessed wi

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for him to defend her. Prayin

a short, dis

her," he said. "

sed. "She's rich. Did

burden, always has been. Besides, look at her. She's just a checkbook with legs. She was a useful stand-in

like a physical

tan

aceh

se of the restaurant. The room tilted. The air felt too thin. She pressed

his gallery shows, the late-night calls where she listened to his insecur

r champagne silk dres

a crushing wave of humiliation. She couldn't confront them. If she stood up now,

give them tha

lently, like a ghost, leaving the unopened menu and the glass of wate

her face, stinging the tears

re shaking so badly she almost dropped

ckname. Then she b

gram. Blocked. T

f her heart fractured. It

stress immediately. He hurried out. "Ms. Franks? Is

ked out. Her voice was un

e to?

inally snapping. "Not home. Everything there

door. "Ma'am, you have the board m

into the darkness of the backseat. "I want t

hind the restaurant, the cufflinks in her purse,