The gallery floor had already begun its slow transition into evening when Galathea Brooks checked the time.
The light filtering through the tall glass panels had shifted from clean white to something softer, warmer, flattening the edges of sculptures and dulling the sharpness of polished frames. A pair of assistants near the far wall spoke in low voices while rolling a crate into position, their movements careful but no longer urgent. The hum of the climate system stayed steady above it all, constant, indifferent.
Galathea stood near the central desk, one hand resting lightly against a stack of paperwork she had not finished reviewing.
Four o'clock.
She didn't move immediately. Her gaze lingered on the page in front of her, though she wasn't reading it anymore. The lines had stopped holding shape a few minutes ago, the words sliding past without settling.
Behind her, footsteps approached.
"Ms. Brooks?" Jill's voice came from her right, measured and attentive as always.
