THE STERLING INHERITANCE

**POV: Celeste**

The gallery was perfect.

Absolutely, beautifully perfect in a way that made my heart race and my palms sweat with the particular anxiety of an event that could make or break my reputation.

White walls showcasing twelve pieces from emerging artists-bold, confrontational work that made gallery-goers uncomfortable in the best way. Track lighting positioned just so to create dramatic shadows. A bartender in the corner serving champagne and craft cocktails. Soft ambient music that didn't compete with conversation.

And the guests. God, the guests.

I'd called in every favor, leveraged every connection, and possibly oversold the "exclusive" nature of the evening. But they'd come. Tech executives in expensive casual wear. Old money types who collected art like baseball cards. A food critic from the Seattle Times. Even a minor celebrity I recognized from some streaming show.

Not quite the billionaire crowd I'd promised my parents at dinner, but impressive enough that I could maybe spin it into something that sounded exclusive when they asked.

The lie still haunted me. *We're expecting Dominic Cross. His foundation does a lot with the arts.*

Complete fabrication. His foundation had sent me a form rejection letter three months ago when I'd requested sponsorship. But my mother's face when I'd mentioned his name-that flash of approval, of interest, of maybe Celeste isn't a complete disappointment after all-had been worth the lie.

I'd figure out how to deal with the consequences later. Tonight was about surviving the opening.

I adjusted my dress-vintage Yves Saint Laurent, deep emerald that set off my auburn hair-and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. My third. Or fourth. The bubbles helped quiet the anxiety that always came with these events, the fear that despite everything I'd poured into this gallery, I was still just playing at having a real career.

"Celeste, darling, this is phenomenal!" Marie , a tech VP I'd been courting for months, air-kissed both my cheeks. Her eyes were already scanning the walls, calculating. "That piece by Rivera-I'm obsessed. What's the price?"

I named a figure that made her eyebrows rise but didn't make her walk away. She pulled out her phone, already texting her interior designer.

Good. I needed sales tonight. Needed validation. Needed proof that I wasn't just the problem child playing artist while my sisters did Important Things.

"The thematic coherence is striking," a man in wire-rimmed glasses said to his companion as they studied a canvas exploring corporate environmental destruction through visceral decay imagery. "She's making bold choices with emerging voices."

Pride swelled in my chest. This was what I'd built. Not rebellion for rebellion's sake, but something real. Something meaningful.

Even if my parents would never see it that way.

The gallery filled steadily over the next hour. Conversations hummed, champagne flowed, and three pieces sold with red dots marking them as claimed. My assistant Marco was managing the guest list at the entrance, checking names, ensuring we maintained that perfect balance of exclusive without being empty.

I was in the middle of explaining the symbolism in a mixed-media installation when Marco caught my eye from across the room. He was gesturing frantically, his expression somewhere between panic and excitement.

I excused myself and wove through the crowd toward him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, exactly, but-" He lowered his voice, leaning close. "Someone just arrived who's not on the list. He says he saw the invitation online, wanted to see the show. But Celeste, his suit probably costs more than three months of my rent."

"So? Rich people crash art openings all the time. If he's interested in buying-"

"That's not the point." Marco grabbed my arm. "I think you need to handle this one personally. He's... intense."

I followed his gaze toward the entrance. A man stood with his back to us, speaking quietly into his phone. Charcoal suit, perfect posture, the kind of presence that made people instinctively step aside to give him space.

Something about him seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it from behind.

"I'll take care of it," I said, moving toward the entrance.

I needed another champagne first. Needed to be charming and professional for whoever this was. Rich donors required careful handling, even uninvited ones.

The bartender poured me a fresh glass-definitely my fifth of the evening, I should slow down but tonight required liquid courage-and I turned to make my way back across the gallery.

My heel caught on something. The floor, my own feet, the universe conspiring against me-I didn't know and didn't have time to figure it out.

I stumbled directly into someone.

Hard.

The impact sent my full champagne glass flying. Time slowed as I watched it arc through the air, the liquid catching the track lighting, droplets sparkling like diamonds as gravity took over.

Six ounces of expensive French champagne splashed across a charcoal suit jacket.

The entire glass emptied itself down the front of someone's chest.

I stared at the spreading stain, at the way the champagne soaked into fabric that was definitely not off-the-rack. This was bespoke tailoring. Custom cut. The kind of suit that cost more than my rent.

"Watch where you're-"

The voice cut off abruptly.

I should apologize. That's what normal people did when they destroyed expensive clothing. That's what the professional gallery owner in me knew was the appropriate response.

But I didn't.

Instead, I slowly raised my eyes from the ruined suit.

Past a broad chest that filled the jacket with the easy confidence of someone who'd never questioned whether they belonged in a room.

Past a strong jaw that was currently clenched with what looked like barely contained irritation.

Into a face I'd seen dozens of times before.

Not in person. Never in person.

But in Forbes profiles and business magazines and society pages and that rejection letter his foundation had sent me three months ago with its impersonal *we appreciate your interest but cannot support every worthy cause* language.

Dark hair perfectly styled. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Brown eyes that were intelligent and assessing and currently looking at me like I was an interesting problem to solve.

Dominic Cross.

The actual Dominic Cross.

Standing in my gallery with champagne dripping down his Tom Ford suit.

My mouth opened. Closed. No words came out.

This was the man I'd lied about knowing. The billionaire whose attendance I'd fabricated to earn my mother's approval. The philanthropist whose foundation had rejected my proposal.

And I'd just dumped an entire glass of champagne on him.

I should apologize. Should grovel. Should do whatever it took to salvage this catastrophic first impression.

But something in me-that part that had always rebelled against doing what was expected, what was appropriate, what would make my parents proud-refused.

So instead, I just stared.

At his face, which was even more striking in person than in photographs. At the way his jaw tightened with controlled fury. At the champagne still dripping from his lapel onto what were probably Italian leather shoes.

At the fact that the universe had somehow manifested the exact person I'd been lying about into my gallery on the one night I needed everything to go perfectly.

"Well?" His voice was clipped, controlled, dangerous in its quietness.

I should say something. Anything.

But my brain was short-circuiting, caught between the impulse to apologize and the stronger impulse to not give this man-this billionaire who probably expected everyone to fall over themselves for him-the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

So I said nothing.

Just stood there, frozen, staring up into the furious face of Dominic Cross.