The hum of Bellamy Gallery had always been Gigi’s safe space. The muted shuffle of shoes on polished floors, the hushed conversations of collectors, and the faint scent of oil paint and varnish blended into something that reminded her she still had control over one part of her life.
On the surface, the gallery gleamed—white walls, carefully placed lighting that made each painting seem to breathe. But Gigi knew how fragile that glow was. Her family’s collapse years ago had taught her that success was always precarious, that wealth and recognition could vanish in a breath.
She forced herself to focus on the day’s tasks. Clara, her quick-footed assistant, hovered with a clipboard.
“Your weekend is fully booked,” Clara said with a half-smile. “Two private showings today, a donor’s dinner to
