The morning light filtered into the Bellamy Gallery in long, golden shafts, casting a glow across canvases that had been carefully hung the night before. The staff moved with quiet urgency, checking lighting angles, dusting plinths, and polishing the floor until it gleamed. The gallery had to be perfect—flawless—because tonight, patrons with sharp eyes and sharper wallets would be attending a private showing.
Gigi tried to focus on the details that mattered: where the sculpture caught the light, how the shadows of a frame touched the wall. Her clipboard felt heavy in her hand, and her pen had begun to dig tiny grooves into the paper from her restless grip. She wanted to care—needed to care—but her mind refused to quiet.
The lily wouldn’t leave her.
She had shoved it into the desk drawer
