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“She’s still painting, though?”

“I’m sure she’ll return to it when things settle.”

It takes everything I have not to grit my teeth in front of him. No doubt, they’ve practically stripped her paintbrushes from her fingers.

I haven’t heard from Alice since the engagement.

Neither has Jack.

Her phone went dead the following morning. Her personal profiles disappeared before lunchtime, and her chat windows went offline.

Her gallery page remains online, but the contact form now directs enquiries to an account controlled by the Parker family administration.

Jack tested it three times.

Once as himself, once through The Gilded Table and once under the name of a supposedly interested buyer from Monaco.

All three messages received the same response.

Ms Parker is currently unavailable. Auction enquiries should be directed to Stour Contemporary.

Jack called it a digital fucking kidnapping.

I couldn’t argue.

“Is she engaging much with the upcoming auction?” I ask. “Not long now. She must be excited.”

“The auction is being handled just fine.”

“By Alice?”

“By all of us.”

“Excellent.”

Christopher smiles again.

My pulse beats harder. He wants me to react, but I give the sonofabitch nothing.

He walks past me, pausing at the door.

“You’ll be accompanying us to Hammersmith, so I hear.”

His words catch me unaware.

“Accompanying you? No. I haven’t been told.”

“Bill intends to ask you. You’ve always been a dependable family friend, after all.”

Every word puts me in my place.

Not a threat.

Not a rival.

A dependable family friend assigned to join in with the fake Parker Otley enthusiasm.

Christopher opens the door.