The rain started without warning that morning, painting the glass walls of the gallery in soft streaks of silver. The city beyond it moved in a blur—umbrellas tilting, cabs splashing through puddles, a muffled hum that seemed to echo the noise inside Gigi’s chest.
She’d been standing in front of the new installation for nearly twenty minutes, pretending to study the brushwork. But she wasn’t seeing the art at all. She was seeing his face—the half-smile, the quiet stare that always seemed to ask more of her than she was ready to give.
Jason.
It had been almost three weeks since she’d last seen him. No calls. No messages. Only his ghost lives on the edges of her thoughts.
Sultana had passed by that morning, all sympathy and poison. “Maybe he’s finally showing you who he really is, Gigi.
