The dinner wasn’t supposed to matter.
A quiet evening organized by one of the smaller art collectives — the kind of polite industry gathering Gigi usually attended out of obligation rather than excitement.
Still, she went.
Her name was gaining weight in the scene now, and every appearance mattered.
The restaurant was one of those discreet, dimly lit places tucked into a narrow street off Madison — candlelight, glass walls, too much velvet. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and money.
Gigi arrived ten minutes late, her heels clicking lightly across the marble floor as a host led her to the long table where half the guests were already seated.
She smiled, apologized softly, and took her seat. Conversation resumed easily — talk of funding, exhibitions, and new projects. She tried to l
