The Bellamy Gallery was quiet that morning, the kind of silence that hummed rather than rested. Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight pouring in from the tall glass panes, glinting against the frames of priceless canvases. Gigi sat at her desk in the corner office, the heavy oak table buried under papers, sketch pads, and a thin vase of orchids that Clara insisted brightened the mood.
Her fingers lingered on a folder she had no real intention of opening. She had been staring at the same invoice for ten minutes straight. It wasn’t the numbers that refused to line up—it was her thoughts. Jason’s presence at the gala replayed in her mind, the way his voice had cut through the noise like it belonged there, the quiet authority in his gaze when it found hers across the room. And then J
