Emily Caldwell runs the Caldwell Gallery in Manhattan and a life engineered to the millimeter. Control is her inheritance, her coping mechanism, and the way she has kept the damage from her perfectionist father off the surface. When a cab runs a red on Ninth Avenue and stalls her car, a mechanic stops, reads the leaking oil off his fingertips, and tells her exactly what is broken with the same quiet authority she brings to a Hepworth bronze.
Marcus Renner owns a shop uptown, fabricates and welds with a structural eye that misses nothing, and has not let anyone hold the reins since the last woman who tried left a scar on his wrist three years ago. Emily's proposal arrives as a fifty-three page written contract, with negotiated safeword protocols and a Gallery of Control built into her penthouse. Neither of them expects how accurately the other reads them. Neither of them expects how hard the art world pushes back once they stop pretending.
A rival dealer named Julian Hale is building a campaign to gut Emily's gallery through her provenance records. The woman who broke Marcus has turned up at his garage fence. And the consent violation that nearly ends the two of them is not the worst thing coming. A dark, female-led BDSM romance about inherited control, accurate reading, and what a person is when the tool that defines them is taken away.
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