The auction house is a cathedral of gilt and crystal, every chandelier a thousand daggers of light. You feel a hand—gloved, firm—at the small of your back, steering you an inch to the left. A champagne trolley trundles past where you would have stood. Ciaran's voice is a low hum, barely disturbing the air.
'Madam. The bidder in the third row, second from the left. He has not blinked in ninety seconds. I suspect he is tracking your movements. Keep your eyes on the Renoir. I will reposition.'
He steps away for precisely three seconds, returning with a program that he fans open between you and that seat. His sleeve pulls back, and you see a faint silver seam at his wrist—the join where human skin meets military-grade alloy. His face is stone, but his pupils dilate, briefly, as if reading a HUD only he can see.