The marble floors of Artemis still carried the faint smell of citrus polish when Galathea Brooks crossed the lobby Monday morning. Someone from maintenance had buffed the stone before sunrise, leaving the surface glossy enough to catch reflections from the tall glass façade.
Staff moved through the space with practiced rhythm-- security near the front desk exchanging low comments over coffee, assistants balancing tablets against their hips, couriers wheeling padded crates toward the freight elevators behind reception.
Everything looked normal.
That irritated her.
After the tunnel, after the crate, after standing in Cael Alexander's office while he calmly admitted he had orchestrated the entire thing, Artemis should have looked different. Wrong, somehow. Instead, the building continued functioning with the same polished indifference it always had.
Her blazer sat neatly over her shoulders again.
Pressed, laundered, and subtly fragrant with blackcurrant.
Returned without comment.
That detail stayed under her skin longer than she wanted to admit.
Her phone vibrated in her hand before she reached the elevators.
She already knew who it would be.
Still, she looked.
Pit Boss
Private office.
No greeting. No explanation.
Galathea stared at the message for a moment, thumb resting against the edge of the screen. Around her, two interns hurried past carrying exhibition packets, whispering too loudly about a collector dinner scheduled for Thursday night.
"…I heard he's flying in from Zurich."
"Well, if Mr. Alexander's personally handling it, the sale's probably insane."
Galathea slipped her phone back into her bag.
Of course he was already working.
Of course he looked perfectly rested after detonating her understanding of reality less than eight hours ago.
She stepped into the elevator and pressed the third-floor button.
The ride was short enough to feel abrupt.
When the doors opened, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The executive floor was quieter than the rest of Artemis, not because fewer people worked there, but because everyone had learned how to lower their voices around power. Carpet replaced marble. Glass offices lined the corridor, sunlight muted through smoked panels and carefully angled blinds.
Galathea stepped out.
Heads lifted.
Not dramatically. Artemis employees prided themselves on subtlety. Still, she caught the pauses-- the assistant near reception slowing mid-typing, a curator glancing up from her phone, two finance staff exchanging a quick look when Galathea walked directly toward the restricted corridor.
Nobody stopped her.
Most people on the executive floor knew better than to question access they didn't understand.
But people noticed.
Especially when her badge unlocked the executive access door on the first scan.
The receptionist nearest the corridor looked up fully at that. 'Interesting.'
Galathea noticed the expression but kept walking.
The corridor beyond felt cooler, quieter, sealed away from the hum of the main floor. Recessed lighting cast clean lines along dark walls, the kind of lighting designed to make expensive spaces feel controlled instead of warm.
At the end of the hall, the private office door opened before she touched it.
Galathea stopped.
Not because the automatic movement startled her anymore.
Because she was beginning to expect it.
That was worse.
She stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of coffee and cedarwood. A long black table occupied the center, its polished surface interrupted only by a control console and two untouched glasses of water. One wall held a massive monitor. Another contained built-in steel cabinetry with concealed locks.
No windows. No decorative art. No distractions.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Locked.
Cael stood near the monitor in a dark charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked composed in the deeply irritating way only powerful men seemed capable of before ten in the morning.
His gaze moved over her once, brief and precise. "You came quickly."
Galathea set her bag on the table. "You summoned me like a disappointed principal. Curiosity felt appropriate."
A faint shift touched his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
"You saved my number as Pit Boss," he said. "Subtlety stopped mattering a while ago."
"There were less flattering options," Galathea pointed out.
"I'm aware," he smirked.
The ease in his voice bothered her more than tension would have.
Cael moved toward the console, pressing a sequence into the panel without looking down. "You didn't sleep."
Galathea crossed her arms lightly. "And you look refreshed. Honestly, Alexander, it's a little offensive."
That earned an actual smile. Brief. Dangerously amused.
"You noticed," Cael tilted his head to one side.
"I noticed you apparently traumatize people and then moisturize through it," Galathea snapped.
A quiet laugh escaped him then, low enough that it almost blended into the room's ventilation system.
The sound caught her off guard, which annoyed her immediately.
Cael gestured toward the chair nearest the monitor. "Sit down, sweetheart."
"I hate when you sound calm," she cut her eyes at him.
"And yet, here we are," he was still smirking.
She sat anyway.
The monitor flickered to life.
Black-and-white security footage filled the screen.
Timestamp: Monday -- 10:43 AM.
The exhibition floor appeared from an overhead angle. Visitors drifted through the gallery space in slow movements, expensive coats and polished shoes softened by grainy surveillance quality.
Then Galathea saw herself.
Clipboard in hand, standing in front of the surreal city painting.
Her stomach tightened.
Cael stayed standing beside the monitor, one hand in his pocket. "Watch carefully."
On screen, she leaned closer to the painting.
Paused.
Reached for her phone.
The image distorted immediately.
Static crawled through the frame in sharp waves.
Galathea frowned. "That's interference."
Cael didn't answer.
The footage continued.
Her on-screen-self lifted a hand toward the canvas without touching it. The movement looked hesitant now that she watched it from outside herself, like instinct fighting caution.
Then light gathered along her fingers.
Not reflected light. Not camera glare.
Something pale and fluid stretched from the painting toward her hand in thin strands that reminded her unpleasantly of nerves being pulled from skin.
The camera feed warped around it.
Galathea felt her throat tighten.
On screen, the glow pooled briefly against her palm before snapping back toward the painting hard enough to distort the image entirely.
The overhead lights flickered.
Her recorded-self stumbled backward.
The feed cut to black.
Silence settled over the room.
Galathea stared at the monitor a second too long before leaning back in her chair. "That's not what happened."
Her voice sounded quieter than she intended.
"You're arguing with surveillance footage now," Cael said mildly. "That feels ambitious before coffee."
He studied her carefully. "You don't remember feeling it?"
"I remember static. Slight dizziness. Not…" She gestured vaguely toward the screen. "Whatever haunted flashlight situation that was."
His mouth twitched again. "You make supernatural phenomena sound deeply inconvenient."
"They are deeply inconvenient," she said.
Cael stepped around the table slowly. He could have crossed the distance quickly. Instead, he moved with deliberate patience, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to.
She didn't.
"That wasn't interference," he said quietly.
Galathea looked up at him.
"That was you," he continued.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the armrest. "You're saying I did that."
"I'm saying your body reacted before your mind caught up," he explained.
"That doesn't sound reassuring," she exhaled visibly.
"It wasn't meant to." He stopped beside her chair, close enough for the familiar scent of blackcurrant and citrus to settle into her awareness. It had become associated with him over the years in the same irritating way his voice had-- recognizable immediately, impossible to mistake for anyone else.
"You've heard the word before," Cael continued. "You just didn't think it belonged to you."
Galathea's gaze dropped briefly because he was right.
The dream returned sharply-- the painted city, the impossible sky, the voice repeating the same word until it felt carved into her spine.
'Seer.'
Cael watched her expression shift. Not dramatically. Just enough.
"It didn't come out of nowhere," he said. "You heard it long before you walked into that gallery."
Galathea exhaled slowly through her nose.
The word settled into place before she could stop it.
"Seer," she said quietly. Saying it out loud made something tighten low in her chest, like the word had been waiting for recognition.
The room felt still after that.
Cael inclined his head once. "That's what they used to call people like you."
"People like me," she repeated. "That sounds medically concerning."
A softer laugh escaped him.
God, she hated when he looked entertained.
"You pull light from paintings," Cael said. "And things that have been quiet for a very long time start waking up around you."
Galathea looked toward the dark monitor again. "You're saying art is alive."
"I'm saying some things don't stay buried forever." He watched her.
Cael stepped away before the proximity became impossible to ignore and moved toward the steel cabinet built into the wall. He entered another code.
The lock released with a muted click.
Galathea stood slowly as he removed a wrapped canvas from inside.
His movements around the painting became careful and measured, almost reverent.
That unsettled her more than the footage had.
Cael carried the canvas to the table and unwrapped it gradually, peeling dark cloth back from aged varnish and an ornate frame dulled slightly by time.
He angled it toward her. "Look."
Galathea stepped closer.
The portrait hit her like cold water.
A woman stared back from the canvas with calm, unreadable eyes.
It was her face.
Not similar. Not close.
Exact. Her face exactly.
The same cheekbones. The same mouth. The same steady expression she wore when refusing to let people know what she was thinking.
Even the tilt of the head felt familiar.
Galathea stopped breathing for half a second. "That's impossible."
Cael watched her instead of the painting. "You know it isn't."
She looked at him sharply. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" Cael asked, returning her gaze.
"Talk like you've been waiting years for me to panic correctly," her brows creased.
His expression shifted then, something quieter replacing amusement.
"Galathea," he said carefully, "if I wanted you frightened, I wouldn't have spent six years making sure you trusted me first."
The words landed harder than they should have because they sounded honest.
She looked back at the portrait quickly, as if that might steady her.
It didn't.
"You knew this was here the entire time?" she asked.
"Yes." A nod.
"And you waited." She narrowed her gaze.
"I needed you to see it when you were ready to understand it." He pursed his lips.
"That's generous wording for psychological damage." She inhaled sharply, as she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You're handling it better than most people would," he remarked in a velvety tone.
"That's because I'm still deciding whether this is a breakdown," Galathea said with hint of sarcasm in her voice. The sarcastic tone, whether it was because of his words or because of the sound of his voice, she wasn't sure.
Cael leaned lightly against the edge of the table beside the portrait, watching her with the same patient focus he'd carried since she was nineteen and glaring at him across intern orientation meetings.
Only now she understood something she hadn't before.
He had never looked at her casually. Not once.
The realization sat heavier than it should have.
Galathea rubbed a hand briefly against the back of her neck before stepping away from the painting. "I need air."
Cael straightened immediately.
Not stopping her. Not following.
The restraint felt deliberate.
Which somehow carried more weight than pursuit would have.
She turned toward the door.
It unlocked before she reached it.
This time, she paused long enough to look back at him.
Cael remained beside the table, one hand resting near the portrait frame, his expression unreadable again except for the slight attention fixed entirely on her.
Like he was waiting.
Still.
After all this time.
Galathea stepped into the corridor.
The executive floor noise returned gradually-- phones ringing softly, keyboards clicking, distant conversation moving through glass offices.
Normal life continuing.
An assistant near reception glanced up as she emerged from the restricted corridor. The woman looked away quickly, though not before curiosity flashed across her face.
Galathea kept walking.
Halfway to the elevators, someone from donor relations intercepted her carefully with a folder tucked against his chest.
"Ms. Brooks? Sorry-- Thursday's seating chart needs your approval before noon."
For one strange second, she simply stared at him.
Because somewhere under the gallery, hidden paintings waited in crates.
Because doors had started opening for her before she touched them.
Because a portrait of her face existed years before she was born.
And Artemis still needed seating charts approved by lunch.
"Right," she said quietly, taking the folder. "Send me the updated version too. The left side looks crowded."
The employee blinked once, visibly relieved she sounded normal. "Of course."
He walked away quickly.
Galathea stood there another moment with the folder in her hands before the elevator doors opened beside her.
Behind her, deep inside the restricted corridor, a locked door remained closed.
But she is now aware of his attention in a different way.
Steady. Patient.
And no longer pretending not to want her to notice it. That realization unsettled her more than the painting had.