The morning sunlight filtered through the wide glass panes of the Bellamy Gallery, casting a golden glow over the art displays. Gigi stood near the entrance, clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back loosely as she supervised the final arrangements for the evening’s charity gala.
To anyone watching, she looked poised — calm, professional, every inch the capable curator she’d worked so hard to become.
But inside, her thoughts churned like an unquiet sea.
She hadn’t heard much from Jason in the past week. When he did call, his voice was tired, clipped — like a man speaking through smoke. He blamed it on work, on family issues, on “things he had to fix before they got out of hand.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did.
But the tone of his voice lingered — sharp edges where warmth used
