Sebastian?
They shook hands, and Hugo turned back to us.
“Sebastian Wetherall,” he said, gesturing to the man.
Fuck. Of course it was him. The art critic.
“This is Liam Roth. And his partner, Andrea Jones.”
Of all the people to resurfacehere.
Sebastian was already looking at Liam, his fixed smile making it clear he knew exactly who he was. Liam had enough money to turn opinions into opportunity. Enough to buy a whole gallery, for that matter.
“Liam,” Hugo continued, “Sebastian is one of those infuriating people who makes a living handing out opinions on other people’s work.”
Yes. He had plenty of opinions.
Naive.
That was what he’d called my piece—the word that had stuck.
“Someone has to,” Sebastian said mildly.
“And worse,” Hugo added, “he’s usually right.” He laughed.
Great.
Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize me. I was nobody, after all.
Before Sebastian could respond, someone appeared at his shoulder, tall and blond in a tight gold dress.
Bonnie.
She hovered there like a wasp, eyes darting from Sebastian to Liam, and then back to Hugo and me. Did she think I might say something wrong? I’d done pretty well so far.
Bonnie stepped forward, and I found myself nudged half a pace back without having moved.
Sebastian turned to Liam and offered his hand.
“Liam Roth,” he said. “Good to finally put a face to the name.”
“Likewise.”
I kept my eyes down. I hadn’t had enough champagne to pretend I could handle Sebastian.
Then his attention moved.
“Andrea?” he said. “Andrea Jones?”
A prickle of heat ignited in my neck and started creeping toward my cheeks.
“Hi.” My voice came out high, like I was trying too hard.
“Right,” he said, his expression adjusting slightly. “I thought I recognized you.”
“You two know each other?” Hugo asked.
“We do,” said Sebastian. I smiled weakly.
