“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” muttered Edward.

Ashley tapped her finger on her red mouth. “Mr. Ashford makes a fair point, Sophia.”

As always. He smiled charmingly at Ashley, “Ethan, my dear, please.” His attention wandered back to Sophia. “See, darling,” his hands made their way back to her shoulders and his azure eyes glowed with excitement, “your CEO and PR director agree with me. Say, November? We’ll raise even more awareness for the new branches in Asia. And funds, of course.”

“I’ll think about it, Ethan,” she replied with a smile. And my answer will probably be no. She looked at Ashley asking for help.

Ash discreetly winked, understanding. “I’ll take a look at her schedule, Mr. Ashford, and get back to you.”

“Ashford.” Fuck off. Alistair’s arm snaked around Sophia’s waist and pulled her to him, as his free hand stretched to shake Ethan’s.

“MacCraig. Congratulations on the exhibition.” Your best piece is in your arms right now. The moment you let go, I’ll have her back.

Don’t you dare paw Sophia again. “The gallery’s guiding principle is to show what our most exciting artists are making nowadays. We aim to make art more accessible to the mainstream, without losing the exclusivity.” She is the one and only. Exclusively mine.

Edward rolled his eyes at Sophia, who was struggling to control her laughter, as Ashley looked away with a huge smile on her lips.

Exclusivity of Sophia, you mean. “Indeed. I heard you’ve created an art fund and that it’s already closed to new entrants. I’ll be interested if there’s a new one.” Interested in Sophia, I mean.

You don’t fool me, Ashford. “Aye. It was a huge success. My brother,” he signaled to Tavish, who excused himself from a group of buyers and made his way to where they were, “is in charge of the gallery and the art fund. I’m sure he can explain it to you better.”

Family business, huh? Ethan watched the younger and more handsome version of Alistair approach them, smile at Sophia before acknowledging the others. Your perdition is in your own home, MacCraig.

“Ashford, my brother Tavish Uilleam.” He’ll be watching you too, Ashford.

“Gentlemen, Ash, Zahira,” Sophia said to the group, “if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

“Don’t wander too far, my love.” Alistair didn’t miss the chance and whirled her in his arms, planting a kiss on her mouth. She’s mine, see Ashford?

She rolled her eyes at his smirk. “I’ll be right back.” Good God, Alistair Connor. What’s this show for?

“Jesus,” Tavish’s murmur called Alistair’s attention away from Edward, Ashley, Zahira and Ethan as they talked of the LO and Ashford ball. His eyes were fixed on something Alistair couldn’t see.

“What is it?” Alistair inquired.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Tavish bit out harshly and lugged Alistair by the arm to the stairs. They climbed up a few steps before he faced Alistair and hissed, “Are you crazy? What is she doing here?”

What? “Who? Doing what?”

Tavish grabbed Alistair by the upper arm pointing to the end of the center room where a blonde woman was draped on the arm of a member of the House of Lords. As she strolled through the room, heads turned in her direction.

Fuck. “That bitch.” His eyes searched the three main rooms for Sophia. “Where is Sophia? I can’t see her.”

“She’s probably gone to the toilet. Go look for her. I’ll take care of this.”

Alistair’s hand stopped Tavish as cold sweat trickled down his back. “Diplomacy, Tavish Uilleam. The gallery is full and I don’t want a scandal.” And that’s all she wants.

“Don’t worry, Brother. Of course, I’ll be discreet.”

You are anything but diplomatic where my past is concerned. “Wait.”

Tavish paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at his brother, who was calmly descending with a smile on his face and a nonchalant pose.

If anyone had looked at Alistair, no one would have guessed the dread coursing through his veins. He knew what Emma was capable of. Since that day in the restaurant at Berkshire, she’d been hounding him to get him back. In her bank account. In her bed.

This is not a coincidence. “Call Leo. Look for Sophia. I’ll handle Emma.”

“Ma’am,” the waiter handed Sophia a crystal flute filled with freezing cold Cristal Louis Roederer.

“Thank y-”

Sophia saw disaster open its jaws to receive her, as someone roughly bumped into her back. Her hands shot forward to balance herself.

Her glass flew away, exploding against a sculpture of twisted iron forming a macabre rainbow made of sharp shards and splashed champagne.

Sophia, her shawl and her purse fell on the mess of glass and golden liquid.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, controlling her need to cry, reeling with embarrassment.

Two waiters immediately helped her from the mess.

“Here. Let me help,” a velvet coated voice and a soft arm over Sophia’s shoulders guided her to the nearby bathroom.

“Thanks,” she murmured, head lowered, not bothering to pick up her shawl or clutch. All she wanted was to be away from there. I’m not going to cry. I’m not.

As she walked to the toilet, she brushed away the small pieces of glass from her wet dress. A piece caught in her palm and she flinched. She turned her hand up and pulled it out, biting her lip to stop the flow of tears. Idiot. Idiot.

“Here, my dear.” The arm guided her inside the bathroom.

“Thanks, you’re so kind,” she whispered, through the lump in her throat, as she entered the huge travertine marble room.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, Sophia’s eyes rounded. Her dress was torn and stained, her knees were scrapped and bruised and one of her legs was cut, a shard protruding from it.

God! Oh. My. God! She was so shocked with her appearance that she didn’t hear the lock on the bathroom door being turned.

Tavish felt as if he was watching a humorless slapstick film.

He opened his mouth to get Sophia’s attention from the other side of the huge room, but it happened too quickly for him to warn her. Emma approached Sophia from behind, waited for her to get her champagne glass and pushed her against a John Chamberlain sculpture.

He cut through the chatter of people who didn’t seem to notice the accident, ordering the waiters to clean the mess.

When he looked around for Sophia, she was already gone.

Alistair’s head snapped up when he heard the noise of breaking glass, but he was too far away to see what had happened. Christ! Let it not be Sophia.

He crossed the rooms, a fixed smile on his face, his eyes scanning the crowds for Sophia or Emma.

But neither was anywhere to be seen.

Their eyes locked in the mirror.

Damn! What the hell does she want?

Emma Miller was a gorgeous woman. Natural blonde hair cascaded down to frame a perfect face, where blue eyes with mascara painted lashes were blistering and plump lips were sneering. She was very tall and lean and her sexy and cruel nature screamed from inside the Hervé Leger short black bandage dress.

“So. You’re the chosen one,” Emma tilted her head, raking her cold gaze over Sophia with spite. “Hmm. Alistair Connor used to have better taste.”

Sophia put her hands on the sink to steady her jelly legs and lifted her chin, “And you are?” I’m not giving you this to gloat over.

“Emma Miller, his sister-in-law.” Her hand traveled down her body, from her breast to her thigh. “He used to fuck us. Alistair, Heather and I had some great times together.”

The thoughts were wiped clean from Sophia’s mind at the same time that bile rose in her throat.

“Shocked, my dear? I have it all photographed and filmed when I want to reminisce. Maybe you’d like to join me?”

Disgusting, repulsive, sick. Sophia bit back all the harsh retorts that came to her mind, deciding that silence was the best treatment for that woman. Her cuts were stinging from the champagne and her hands and legswere throbbing and hurting now that her blood had cooled down.

Sophia raised an elegant eyebrow at the woman, dismissing her and, with her heart hammering hard in her chest, she turned and walked to the door on trembling legs.

She pressed the handle down and pulled the door. And pushed.

Sophia rounded, facing Emma. “Open the door.”

Emma tut-tutted. “That’s the education your mother gave you?”

Screw you, bitch. Sophia stiffened and pushed her shoulders back, narrowing her eyes at Emma. “Ever since I first saw you in Berkshire, I knew you were a debased woman.”

“A whore, you mean,” Emma smiled amused at the formal way Sophia spoke.

Whore, if you prefer. “What do you want?”

“Me? Nothing. I just wanted to say hello,” she purred as she stepped closer, backing Sophia onto the wall, “and acquaint myself with the woman who had fucked up the head and the dick of the hottest man in the UK.”

Not me. Sophia thinned her lips. You and your sister, dammit.

“Alistair and I, we’ve been seeing each other,” Emma smiled when her half-lie made Sophia blink, surprised. “Oh! Don’t worry. I like real men. Not pussy whipped losers,” she snorted as she stepped closer. “I thought I’d taken away that nasty habit of his. But it seems that it’s back.”

Wait. What? What is she talking about? What does she know? Sophia didn’t deign to answer.