Evening changed Artemis Art Gallery in subtle ways.
During public hours, the building performed elegance effortlessly. Donors drifted through white halls carrying champagne glasses they barely touched while docents delivered polished explanations beside paintings protected by silent alarms and discreet cameras. Every light had purpose. Every angle had been considered.
After closing, the performance loosened.
The marble floors reflected softer light now, less theatrical and more practical. Cleaning staff rolled carts quietly through the lower galleries while security guards exchanged low conversation near the front desk monitors. Somewhere deeper in the building, freight elevators groaned under the weight of shipping crates being moved for tomorrow's installation.
Galathea Brooks crossed the main corridor with her heels in one hand and her tablet tucked under her arm.
The polished stone felt cold beneath her stockings.
She had stayed late again.
Not unusual.
At Artemis, overtime behaved less like a schedule and more like weather. It arrived without warning and lingered longer than anyone wanted. Six years earlier, she had mistaken that for ambition. Now she recognized it for what it was: institutional manipulation wrapped in prestige and donor funding.
Unfortunately, she was still good at it.
Two assistants near the elevators, presumably closing for the day, lowered their voices when she passed.
Not enough.
"That's the third night this week," one whispered.
"She's probably fixing another acquisition for him."
"She's always with Mr. Alexander after hours."
Galathea kept walking.
The gossip no longer embarrassed her. It barely qualified as background noise anymore. Artemis fed on speculation. Wealthy institutions always did. People liked building stories around proximity to power because it distracted them from how little access they actually had.
None of them understood the reality anyway.
They thought Cael Alexander was untouchable because he was wealthy.
Galathea knew better.
He was untouchable because he never lost control.
That distinction mattered.
The executive corridor sat quieter than the public wings. Dark carpeting softened footsteps while recessed lighting washed muted gold across smoked glass office walls. Most of the assistants had already gone home. The few remaining staff members moved carefully, voices low, shoulders tight with end-of-day exhaustion.
Galathea rolled her sleeves higher as she walked.
The habit came automatically now.
She had picked it up from him years ago without realizing it.
Back when she had been nineteen and desperate to prove herself useful, Cael had worked beside her through midnight inventory corrections and acquisition audits with his sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows and his tie hanging loose around his neck. Eventually she had started doing the same.
At the time, it had felt professional.
Now it felt suspiciously personal.
Cael's office door stood partially open at the end of the corridor.
Of course it did.
Galathea stepped inside without knocking.
The room smelled faintly of cedarwood, black coffee, and the lingering cold air drifting in from the city beyond the windows. His office overlooked the skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass, evening lights spreading across the buildings below like reflections scattered across water.
Cael stood near his executive desk with his jacket discarded over his chair and his tie loosened at the collar. Several acquisition files lay open on the table, though he was no longer looking at them.
He looked at her instead.
Immediately.
Predictably.
"You're limping," he said.
Galathea dropped her heels onto the floor with a dull click. "These shoes are a human rights violation."
"You bought them." Cael said.
"I make mistakes," she said.
Cael's gaze moved briefly toward her bare feet against the dark carpet before returning to her face. "Repeatedly, apparently."
She ignored the faint amusement in his voice and crossed toward the espresso machine near the wall. "If you're about to lecture me about workplace professionalism while standing there dressed like a divorced art professor, this conversation is going to get hostile quickly."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
That almost annoyed her more than if he had argued.
Galathea filled a cup with coffee that had definitely been sitting there too long and leaned against the counter while studying him over the rim. As she did, he strode from where he stood to the cabinet near the door then to her, setting down a pair of soft slippers by her feet.
"You knew I'd come here," she said meeting his gaze as he slowly rose from where he bent.
"Mhm," he hummed.
"You sound very pleased with yourself about it," she narrowed her eyes momentarily
"I usually am." He smirked.
There it was.
The effortless confidence.
Six years of it.
Most women apparently melted under that tone. Galathea had spent years responding to it with sarcasm out of pure survival instinct.
She took another sip. "Your ego should probably be registered as a historic structure."
Cael folded one sleeve higher along his forearm. "You're irritated."
"I'm tired," she muttered.
"You're both." Unfortunately, he was right.
Again.
Galathea looked away first, setting the coffee cup down harder than necessary. Her attention drifted briefly toward the gallery beyond the glass walls.
She could still feel it.
The painting.
Not visually.
Not rationally.
Just pressure.
Like awareness sitting quietly behind her thoughts.
Her fingers rubbed absently against the inside of her wrist.
Grounding.
Cael noticed immediately.
His expression sharpened slightly. "You went back."
Not a question.
Galathea exhaled slowly. "I stood outside the exhibition hall for five minutes arguing with myself like a mentally unstable Victorian woman."
"And?" he peered at her.
"And I didn't go in," she said flatly.
"That wasn't the question," he said.
Her jaw tightened faintly.
Annoying man.
She crossed back toward the coffee table and dropped into one of the armchairs that surrounded it without invitation. "Your gallery has a problem."
Cael remained standing. "I'm aware."
He paused for a beat before continuing, "The cameras failed… Well, partially."
Galathea looked up sharply at that.
Interesting.
Controlled wording.
"The public feeds failed," he continued calmly. "Several sections became unusable."
"Unusable how?" she arched a brow.
Cael moved slowly around the table, not sitting yet. "Distorted. Interrupted."
"And that doesn't concern you?" she looked at him.
"It concerns me very much." His tone changed slightly there.
Subtle.
Real.
Galathea studied him carefully. "You're hiding something."
"I am." His blunt honesty threw her off balance for half a second.
Cael finally sat across from her, occupying the three-seater, his forearms resting loosely against his knees. Relaxed posture. Focused eyes. The kind of controlled stillness that usually meant he was thinking three conversations ahead.
"I'm trying to determine how much you experienced," he said.
Galathea frowned. "Experienced."
"The painting," he started
"There it is," she muttered quietly.
"What?" he tilted his head to one side.
"That tone." She gestured vaguely toward him. "You keep talking like this wasn't just a weird electrical problem."
Cael held her gaze evenly. "Do you believe it was?"
No.
Unfortunately.
No.
Galathea looked down briefly, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her rolled sleeves. Another habit she had stolen from him without noticing.
The realization irritated her enough to answer honestly.
"Fine. You win this time, Alexander. I heard something," she admitted.
The room stayed quiet after that.
Not tense.
Careful.
Cael did not react immediately. He didn't move or start interrogating her like a detective in an expensive suit.
He just watched her.
Waiting.
"What did you hear?" he asked finally.
Galathea rubbed her thumb against her wrist again before answering. "A voice maybe. Or something close to one."
"What did it say?" he asked again.
She hesitated.
That alone answered enough.
Cael's gaze sharpened slightly. "Galathea."
"Just a word," she swallowed before continuing, "Seer."
The word settled heavily between them.
Outside the office, someone laughed faintly down the corridor before the sound disappeared again.
Normal life continuing.
Galathea hated that.
Cael leaned back slowly in his chair. Not relaxed. Thinking.
"You've heard it before," he said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "That sounded dangerously specific."
He held her gaze. "You hesitated too quickly."
"That's not an answer," she shook her head once.
"No," he agreed calmly. "It isn't."
Frustration flared hot beneath her ribs. "You keep doing that lately."
"Doing what?" he said, eyes scanning her.
"Talking like you already know things you're waiting for me to catch up to." Galathea exhaled.
Cael's expression remained unreadable for a moment before something softer crossed it briefly.
Not softness exactly.
Recognition.
"I know more than you do right now," he admitted. "That's true."
"That's incredibly irritating." Galathea rolled her eyes.
"I'm aware." Cael bobbed his head slightly,
Galathea stood abruptly and crossed toward the windows. The city below blurred gold beneath the darkening sky while her reflection hovered faintly against the glass beside it.
She could feel him watching her.
Always.
"You should've told me sooner if something was wrong in this building," she started.
Cael rose from the table behind her. "Would you have listened?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
No.
Probably not.
That annoyed her too.
"You don't get to look smug about being right," she huffed.
"I'm trying very hard not to," he calmy said.
She glanced sideways just in time to catch the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
That almost made her laugh.
Almost.
The office lights flickered once.
Briefly.
Galathea straightened immediately.
So did Cael.
The air shifted strangely for half a second, pressure settling heavier against the room before easing again.
Neither of them spoke.
Galathea rubbed at her forearm slowly now, fingertips brushing repeatedly over suddenly oversensitive skin.
"What was that?" she asked quietly.
Cael's gaze moved toward her hand first, then her face. "That's what I'm trying to understand."
Something in his tone finally unsettled her properly.
Not fear.
Concern.
Real concern.
Galathea turned fully toward him. "You think this has something to do with me."
"I think," he started, "the gallery only started reacting after you touched the painting."
"That is not comforting phrasing," she exhaled.
"No," Cael said softly. "It isn't."
The distance between them narrowed naturally during the conversation. Neither of them seemed to notice it happening until she realized he stood close enough for the scent of cedar and dark citrus to settle around her again.
Familiar.
Dangerously familiar.
Her pulse stumbled once.
Cael noticed that too.
Of course he did.
"You're not as calm as you pretend to be," he said quietly.
"That's 'Employability 101,' if you must know," she said.
"You passed employable years ago," he chuckled.
Galathea looked up at him then.
Too close.
Way too close.
The office felt strangely still around them now, the quiet hum of the climate systems louder than before.
"You keep talking like something already changed," she said.
Cael held her gaze steadily. "Maybe it did."
The honesty landed harder than flirtation would have.
Galathea's fingers curled lightly against her own palm. "You're standing very close to a line, Mr. Alexander."
A slow exhale left him.
"Hm." he said softly, "Wasn't it crossed a long time ago?"
Galathea stared at him for half a second too long.
Then her hand lifted instinctively before her brain caught up.
Her palm pressed briefly against the center of his chest.
Warmth hit instantly.
Not metaphorical.
Real.
The office lights dimmed sharply overhead before flickering back.
Galathea froze.
So did Cael.
The pressure inside the room deepened around them like the building itself had paused to listen.
Her hand remained against his chest for one suspended heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then she pulled away sharply.
Neither of them spoke immediately.
Cael looked down once toward the place she had touched before lifting his gaze back to her face.
Careful now.
Much too careful.
Galathea stepped backward first, pulse suddenly uneven beneath her ribs. "Professional distance," she muttered.
Cael's expression shifted faintly. Something darker. Amused and restrained at the same time.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, "we lost that a long time ago."
Cruel.
Funny.
True.
The use of sweetheart made it worse somehow.
Because he only used it when they were alone.
Because he knew exactly what it did to the space between them.
Her breath caught.
She hated that he was right.
Galathea turned toward the door and grabbed her heels, taking off the soft slippers quickly before the moment could become something worse.
Or more honest.
At the doorway, she stopped just long enough to glance back.
"For the record," she said evenly, "if your haunted gallery starts sacrificing donors to abstract expressionism, I'm resigning immediately."
A low laugh escaped him. "Noted, sweetheart."
She left before her composure failed her entirely.
The executive corridor felt colder outside the office.
Safer too.
Galathea shoved her feet back into her heels and walked toward the elevators without looking behind her once.
Inside the office, silence settled heavily after she disappeared.
Cael remained standing near the windows for several seconds without moving.
Then slowly, deliberately, his hand lifted to the center of his chest.
Exactly where she had touched him.
The lights above him flickered once more.
This time, he noticed before the systems corrected themselves.
Cael looked toward the darkened gallery beyond the office glass.
His expression hardened thoughtfully.
Not surprised.
Not entirely.
But no longer calm either.
Because after six years of careful restraint, the building had finally reacted to her too.