Gemma’s father, dark-haired and rarely smiling, looked like one of the Calvin Klein models from a Times Square billboard. He had the kind of handsomeness that called for black-and-white film. They were an “it” couple, the stuff of movies and perfume ads and novels. How could she not dream of a love like theirs? Her parents had been perfectly matched.

“May I see?” Sanjay asked.

She nodded, passing him the album while she reached for 1999 and opened to the first pages, images of herself as a shy, smiling tot always clutching her mother’s hand. Page after page, photos of white-sand beaches and turquoise water, her parents tan and always touching. Her mother wore bikinis and sarongs, barefoot and bohemian except for the diamonds on her fingers and around her neck.

Sloan would want to see the 2004 album—photos from the night of the Electric Rose tenth anniversary. Her mother had worn a Chanel gown embroidered with butterflies, and Gemma wore a matching dress custom-designed by Karl Lagerfeld himself. She still remembered how it felt to step out of the car to the barrage of camera flashes, the sound of strangers calling her name to get her to look in their direction.

“Smile pretty,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. The giant pink diamond on her mother’s ring finger bit into her palm, reminding her of how it had felt to try it on earlier in the evening, how the weight of it had felt otherworldly and magical.

Gemma closed the album and tucked it into her messenger bag.

“I want that ring back,” she said.

“Gemma, it’s gone. Sometimes you just gotta let go,” he said.

She looked up, flush with irritation that he would suggest such a thing. But the look in his eyes told her he might not be talking only about the ring. She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze.

“I’m not ready to let go.”

62

Sloan Pierce’s office on the top floor of Whitmore’s Auction House had expansive views of the East River. Gemma stared out the window while Sloan flipped through the photos.

“These are incredible,” Sloan said from her desk.

“So tell me about the Electric Rose,” Gemma said impatiently. The meeting was starting to feel like a ransom exchange, with Sloan demanding the photos immediately. She’d handed them over, and now she wanted her payback: news about where her mother’s ring had ended up.

She moved from her spot at the windows to a seat in front of Sloan’s desk. Sloan shuffled the photos absently, like a deck of cards, before placing them back inside the envelope. Then she looked up at Gemma, folding her hands in front of her on the desk.