The wine glass hit the wall with a sound like a gunshot.
Cabernet exploded on impact—dark red liquid splashing across the pristine white surface in a violent bloom, spreading outward in jagged streaks that looked like something between abstract art and arterial spray.
The glass itself shattered a half-second later, fragments catching the light as they scattered—glittering shards spinning through the air before raining down onto the marble floor in a cascade of tinkling, broken music.
The stem bounced once, rolled, and came to rest against the baseboard.
A single drop of wine slid down the wall in a slow, lazy rivulet, tracing a path through the splash pattern like a tear.
Aurelia's hand was still extended. Fingers open. Trembling.
Then her eyes snapped to where the glass had hit—and her heart stopped.
Eros's Lust and Me.
Six million dollars of canvas and oil and raw, devastating beauty hung exactly fourteen inches to the right of the wine splash.
