The fair hummed with curated sophistication—glass clinks, velvet hushes, conversations carried in art-speak.
Stella stood in her booth beside her river painting, a name tag clipped discreetly to her collar:
**Stella M.**
Nothing more.
A collector leaned in too close.
“You ever do private commissions?" he asked, gaze sliding down her wrist.
“I don't," she replied evenly.
“What if I make it worth your while?"
Before Stella could answer, Edison stepped in smoothly, his voice cool and practiced. “We can follow up through formal channels."
The collector blinked, half-embarrassed. “Of course."
He dropped a card and backed away.
Stella exhaled.
“You okay?" Edison asked.
“I'm used to it," she said.
“But you don't have to be," he replied.
---
She stepped out of the booth twenty minu
