Page 37 of State of Ruin

“Thank you.” I step out, and he bends to kiss me chastely on one cheek.

“I’m so happy you came,” he says, and I believe him. “Right this way.” His arm is back out, signaling the way. He hangs back to let me go first. It appears the guy whose animalistic, straight-down-to-business side I’ve seen at Alchemy has beautiful manners when he’s on home turf.

I’m conscious of everything as I walk through the beautiful foyer ahead of him: the click-clack of my heels on his lustrous hardwood floor; the shabbiness of my cheap coat; the fact that I’m in his personal space.

And what a space. I was expecting size and luxury, but I didn’t expect his home to overwhelm me with the sheer impact of its beauty, its opulence.

Like penthouse, like owner, right?

I take in the foyer as quick as I can, greedy to maximize the clues his home provides. It has warm olive-green walls and is thick with paintings—mainly oils, from the look of it, in the kind of gorgeous heavy, dully gilded frames you see in art galleries.

But there’s nothing dated about the paintings. Landscapes, still lifes, and portraits jostle for space, but they share a kind of austerity that’s deeply satisfying. Dried orange halves against a charcoal background. An endless cattle ranch. An old man, tears trickling down his wizened face like the last water working its way down a dried-out riverbed. They have gravitas, I guess. They speak to you. And they’re packed together in a way that seems almost greedy, that feels as though he can’t get enough of them and doesn’t care whether the layout works or not. It’s the layout of an art lover, not an art collector. That’s my two cents, anyways.

“They’re so beautiful,” I say, turning my head to see him.

He rewards me with a grin that looks almost sheepish. “They’re my addiction. This is my opium den. So now you know my dark secret.”

I don’t know the half of his dark secrets, if the lore that endlessly surrounds the Voss family is to be believed, but I appreciate his attempt at a joke.

“Will it get even darker through there?” I ask him.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

He opens one of the double doors at the opposite end of the foyer and ushers me through. I gasp. Holy shit, does it get darker.

“Oh my God,” I say, turning in a circle and staring upward, all my intentions of playing it cool going right out of those floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. “This place is insane.”

“Thank you.” He halts and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, watching me take in his home. “It’s my refuge, so I’ve kinda stuffed it full of all of my favorite things.”

“Yes, you have,” I agree. And why not? He’s richer than God. Why not buy up every object that makes you happy and take it home, where you can enjoy it all without sharing it with everyone? That’s not to say he’s a hoarder; not at all. Or maybe it’s just that this space is so vast that it could hoard half the Met without feeling crowded.

It’s double height, one wall being entirely glass. Beyond, the city twinkles in the dusk in a way that’s every bit as magical as a nineties romcom. He has his own terrace, and I spot flames through the glass. An outdoor fire? But in here, the high walls and dark colors and the abundance of artwork make the space feel both warm and serene in a way I can feel better than I can explain.

I could wrap myself up in this room like a cloak and be perfectly content for the rest of my days. Every glance is like a delicious bonbon for the eyes. On the polished concrete sits a table that looks to be made of ancient temple doors resting on trestles. An enormous portrayal of the crucified Christ, his silhouette made entirely from what looks like pinned white butterflies against a black crucifix, takes up almost one whole wall. Against another is a huge set of charcoal bookshelves, stuffed haphazardly with books and featuring a charcoal-and-brass ladder to reach the upper shelves. There’s an oversized limestone fireplace, currently unlit, and, in front of it, two white couches facing each other. I’d like to curl up on one of those with a good book and spend an entire winter here.

It’s hard to conceive of a place that signals I can buy whatever takes my fancy more, yet there’s nothing sterile or clichéd about it. On the contrary, it’s dripping with passion and great, if totally freaking random, taste.

“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in,” I tell him truthfully, and his face softens.

“That’s very kind. I’m glad you like it.”

“Like is not the right word.” I shake my head. “It’s like heaven up here. I’m amazed you ever want to leave.”

“I don’t, really. But dragging myself out has its own rewards from time to time.”He raises a pointed eyebrow at me, and I realize he’s referring to Alchemy. To me. My face heats, and I don’t know what to say. “Let me take your coat,” he says. He seems nervous, too. I guess at Alchemy things are more cut-and-dried.

I untie my coat and slip it off, handing it to him and feeling more than a little naked in my black dress, even though it’s full length. It has tiny straps, a built-in bra, and a slit up one side. It’s only cheap, but it clings in all the right places and has cute draping across the chest.

He folds my coat over his arm and just stares for a moment. “You are exquisite,” he says finally.

“Thank you,” I say, tucking my hair nervously behind one ear. Exquisite is such a full-on word. It makes me feel like some priceless china doll, which I clearly am not.

He smiles and breaks the tension. “Let me hang this, then I’ll get you a drink. And then you can have the rare and dubious experience of watching me cook.”

CHAPTER 20

Elyse

Sitting on a barstool, sipping the most delicious champagne I’ve ever tasted—1999 Krug, if you must know—while watching Sinclair Voss, New York’s most eligible bachelor according to Page Six and sex god extraordinaire, chopping shallots and datterini tomatoes is as close to real-life porn as I’ve ever come outside of that private room at Alchemy.