The service corridor behind Artemis Art Gallery smelled faintly of cardboard, cold metal, and something citrus-based that never quite covered the underlying dampness.
It wasn't a space designed for people to linger. Deliveries came through, staff passed quickly, and conversations-- if they happened-- were kept brief and quiet.
Galathea Brooks pushed the door open with her shoulder, stepping into the narrow stretch of concrete and steel with her bag slung high and her phone already tucked away. Lunch breaks at Artemis weren't really breaks. They were pauses measured in minutes, calculated against workload and visibility.
She adjusted the edge of her blouse as she walked, more out of habit than concern. The fabric clung slightly at the waist where the air-conditioning had been too cold all morning. Her blazer was folded over her forearm, neat despite the fact that she hadn't worn it properly since mid-morning.
The keypad beside the door blinked softly behind her.
It was routine, just the usual in and out. That's it, no friction.
That was the expectation.
"Galathea."
She slowed, not stopping immediately.
The voice didn't belong here.
She turned just enough to confirm it.
Marcus Hale stood near the far end of the corridor, half in shadow, posture angled like he'd been waiting long enough to grow comfortable with it. His jacket was different from earlier-- cleaner, darker, an attempt at presentation-- but it didn't change what he looked like.
Someone out of place.
"You're persistent," she said.
Marcus smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're difficult to get time with."
"That's intentional," she said, her gaze sharp.
He stepped forward, closing some of the distance between them. "I said I just needed a few minutes."
"And I said no." This time, even her tone was sharp.
"That was before," he replied, as if time alone should have shifted her answer.
Galathea adjusted her grip on her bag. "Move."
He didn't.
Instead, he shifted slightly into her path-- not aggressively, but deliberately enough to make the message clear.
Her expression didn't change.
"Don't do that," she said.
Marcus exhaled, irritation breaking through. "You don't even remember what it's like."
Her gaze sharpened. "That's not the argument you think it is."
"You've got access now," he pressed. "This place-- " he gestured vaguely toward the building behind her "-- it runs on people like you keeping doors closed."
"It runs on people not breaking them," she corrected.
He stepped closer. Too close.
"You used to understand how this works," he said. "You didn't play by rules that were never built for you."
"That wasn't strategy," Galathea said evenly. "That was survival."
"Exactly." He was beaming stupidly, thinking he got his point through.
"No," she replied. "Survival doesn't look like this."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "I'm not asking you to do anything extreme."
"You're asking for access," she said. "That qualifies."
He hesitated for half a second.
"Just once," he said. "You open the door, I walk through. That's it."
Galathea felt something settle cold in her chest.
"No." Her answer didn't waver.
Marcus's patience thinned visibly. "You don't even know what's at stake."
"I know exactly what's at stake," she replied. "And it's not worth it."
His voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "You think you're above it now."
"I think I'm not stupid enough to go back to it," she snapped.
Galathea felt the air shifted slightly but it was not because of Marcus.
It was something else, something faint and familiar.
Galathea ignored it.
Marcus didn't.
He leaned in again, pushing. "You've got a badge, a salary, a boss who-- "
"Stop," she said, voice lower now.
He didn't. "You think that makes you safe?"
"I think it gives me something to lose," she said.
That hit harder than anything else.
Marcus's expression hardened.
"This is survival," he said.
Galathea let out a short breath. "No. This is you trying to justify a bad decision before it happens."
His eyes flinched before he decided to move toward the keypad, his stepped fast.
Galathea reacted before the thought fully formed. She stepped in front of him, her hand pressing flat against his chest, stopping his forward motion.
"Don't," she said.
Marcus pulled her to his body, his arm around her waist. "Come on, we used to be so close." He said, voice low with an attempt at assumed familiarity. It was grating to her ears.
His movements trying to make a claim, enough to test her.
For a split second, the world narrowed. Her blazer fell.
Galathea didn't pull away in the split second that she looked at him, lifted her free hand, and slapped him.
The sound cracked sharp against the corridor walls. Her blazer fell to the ground at the movement.
"Touch me again," she said, voice steady, each word measured, "and you'll lose that hand." She pushed out of his space. "Don't test me, Marcus."
Marcus froze, not from the force but from the certainty.
Behind him, the door beeped.
An intern pushed through with a cart, stopping abruptly at the sight in front of her. Her eyes flicked from Galathea, to Marcus, to the camera above the keypad.
Everything registered at once.
"Everything okay?" she asked, voice too careful.
"No," Galathea said, "Call security."
The intern didn't hesitate long.
She reached for her phone.
Marcus' arm already dropped when Galathea's palm reached his cheek.
He now cradled that side of his face with his palm.
"What are you doing?" he snapped.
"Fixing the situation," Galathea replied.
The intern spoke quickly into her phone, words tumbling out in rushed clarity.
Marcus looked between them, anger rising fast enough to override caution.
Then-- he noticed something else.
A presence behind Galathea, in the shadowed edge of the corridor.
Cael Alexander stood just outside the direct line of light, posture relaxed, hands loosely at his sides. He hadn't approached. Hadn't interrupted.
He simply stood there.
Watching.
Marcus's confidence faltered. "Who's that?" he muttered.
Galathea didn't turn, she didn't need to.
The scent had already reached her.
Blackcurrant. Citrus. Musk. Controlled.
She ignored it.
Marcus didn't.
He stepped back.
One step. Then another.
Security footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.
"This isn't over," Marcus said, but the words lacked weight.
"Yes," Galathea replied. "It is."
With that, he left quickly.
The corridor exhaled.
Security arrived seconds later, scanning the area.
"Ms. Brooks?" one of them asked. "You alright?"
"Yes," she said.
"You want to file a report?"
"Yes, his name is Marcus Hale." Her voice didn't waver.
The intern stood off to the side, still processing, hands slightly unsteady on the cart handle.
"Do you know him?" she asked.
Galathea checked that the report was done before she turned, "I used to."
She didn't look back. She stepped past the guards, past the door, and into the street.
The air outside felt cleaner.
Less contained, but not lighter.
Behind her, "take this to my office," she heard him say then footsteps matched her pace.
Of course they did.
"You didn't hesitate," Cael said.
She didn't slow. "You've said that before."
"It keeps being true."
She glanced at him briefly. "You were watching."
"Mhm." His answer was a hum that made his throat bob.
"Watching and not helping." Galathea said.
"I didn't need to." he chuckled.
She exhaled. "That assumption is dangerous."
He smiled slightly. "Judging by what I saw, so are you."
They reached the corner where the café line had already started forming.
Galathea stepped into it without hesitation.
Cael followed not behind her, beside her.
The shift was noticed immediately.
Two people in line glanced over, then away again, interest barely concealed.
"You could've just gone inside," she said.
"I prefer this," his hands in his pockets.
"Standing in line?" her brows furrowed at him slightly.
"Standing with you," he said, voice melodious.
She rolled her eyes. "Wow. That's not subtle at all."
"It's not meant to be," he replied.
The line moved quickly.
It always did when Cael was present.
Orders were taken faster. Mistakes were avoided. Service sharpened.
Galathea noticed.
Didn't comment.
They had her food in under ten minutes.
Of course they did.
She had a roasted chicken club house sandwich sliced into 12 cubes, each held by a toothpick with a festive end. He ordered coffee to go with her order.
"You could eat here," Cael said as they stepped aside. "I have a table."
"I know you do." She still took the packed lunch.
"It's quiet here," he tried again.
"So is my desk," she answered, voice flat.
"You know, that's not the same thing, right?" He chuckled at her.
She glanced at him. "I'm not sitting in a reserved space with you during lunch."
His mouth curved slightly. "Concerned about appearances?"
"Concerned about narratives," she said as they took the sidewalk back to Artemis Tower.
"The 'narratives' exist regardless," he tilted his head so that she'd meet his gaze.
"Well, I'm not going to throw more kindling into the fire." She turned, entering through the main revolving doors not meant for employees but she was walking with the CEO right now.
As always, when they walked together through those revolving doors, Cael would take her badge and have it scanned, no lines.
She did not speak as she walked toward the staff lounge, where there's an alfresco dining area in the terrace. Fresh air and a view of the mountains.
He followed. Of course he did.
The terrace was half full.
Conversations paused just slightly as they entered.
Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be noticed.
Galathea chose a table near the edge.
She sat and opened her food.
Cael took the seat across from her, coffee in hand.
"Are you even going to drink that?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
He drinks coffee but not this kind. And she knows.
"No." He answered.
"Then why--" she raised a brow.
"It gives me something to do while you ignore me," he said, voice low but relaxed with a tone of amusement.
She almost smiled. Almost.
"You're persistent," she said.
"I've had practice," he answered.
Six years of it, neither of them said it.
They didn't need to.
Across the terrace, curious people subtly and carefully watched.
Galathea took a bite of her food.
It tasted better than what she had in the morning.
Or maybe she just wasn't distracted by Marcus anymore.
"You handled him well," Cael said. "You ended it cleanly."
"I always do." she said, chewing her food slow.
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
"That's not entirely true," he said.
She met his gaze. "What does that mean?"
"It means you're still here." his words landed quietly.
With weight.
Galathea didn't respond immediately.
She took another bite instead.
Chewed. Swallowed.
A controlled movement.
"You're reading into things again," she said.
"I don't need to." Cael answered.
That again. She looked away first. Again.
The terrace settled back into its quiet rhythm around them-- conversations low, cutlery tapping lightly against plastic containers, chairs shifting in small, contained movements.
Nothing overt drew attention, but the awareness lingered. People noticed patterns, especially when they involved proximity that didn't quite belong in a workplace.
Galathea ate slowly, more out of discipline than appetite. The earlier confrontation still sat somewhere under her ribs-- not sharp anymore, but present. Manageable.
Across from her, Cael leaned back slightly in his chair, coffee resting loosely in his hand, gaze drifting toward the skyline beyond the glass barrier. He looked unbothered.
He rarely looked anything else.
That, more than anything, made her hesitate.
Galathea set her fork down, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the container. Her eyes flicked once across the terrace-- interns, mid-level staff, a pair of curators speaking in lowered voices near the far corner.
No one was close enough to hear.
That didn't mean they weren't watching.
She leaned forward anyway.
Not abruptly. Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough to close the space between them by a fraction.
"Something moved," she said under her breath. "Yesterday. The painting-- "
Cael didn't respond immediately.
He didn't interrupt.
He simply watched her for half a second, as if measuring how far she was willing to go with that sentence.
Then he leaned forward too.
Deliberately closer than necessary.
His voice dropped, but not in urgency-- something quieter, edged with amusement.
"Are you sure you want to talk about that now," he said, "here, in hushed tones… while leaning toward me like this?"
The implication landed instantly.
Not in the words, in the positioning.
Galathea felt it-- how it would look from a distance. Two people seated too close, voices lowered, bodies angled inward. Not a conversation.
Something else.
Her spine straightened immediately.
She leaned back, slower than she wanted to, forcing the movement into something casual rather than reactive. Her fingers found her fork again, though she didn't pick it up right away.
"Gods," she muttered under her breath. "You're a jerk."
Cael's mouth curved-- small, contained, entirely unrepentant.
He gave a slight shrug, then a brief wink that was gone as quickly as it appeared, subtle enough that anyone watching might have missed it.
"We'll talk after work," he said.
Not teasing.
Not entirely.
Something more deliberate settled underneath the words.
He leaned back again, gaze shifting outward toward the city, posture returning to something that passed for neutral.
Like the moment hadn't happened.
Galathea stared at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then shook her head, a quiet breath leaving her as she reached for her food again.
"Unbelievable," she muttered.
But she didn't press the topic.
Not here. Not like this.
And not with everyone watching.