The Bellamy Gallery had always been her sanctuary. Its walls, lined with canvases that whispered a thousand untold stories, gave Gigi the quiet sense of control she craved. Here, every frame, every brushstroke, every spotlight was meticulously chosen by her hand. Within these walls, she wasn’t the woman caught between two men—she was the curator, the authority, the voice of art itself.
On this particular morning, sunlight filtered through the tall glass panes, spilling across the polished floors. Clara was already in her element, directing staff to adjust lighting and verifying that the latest delivery of sculptures had been logged. Her efficiency was comforting—solid ground in the swirl of uncertainty that Gigi had been living in.
Yet even here, her thoughts betrayed her. The echo of Is
