The garment bag hanging from Galathea Brooks's apartment door looked expensive in the quietest possible way.
No logo stamped across the plastic. No gold lettering. Just matte black fabric, clean lines, and a cream envelope tucked beneath the hanger hook like an afterthought.
The hallway outside her apartment smelled faintly of someone's burned toast and industrial floor cleaner. Somewhere downstairs, pipes rattled behind old walls while a television bled muffled laughter through thin plaster.
Galathea stared at the bag for a long moment before pulling the envelope free.
One line.
Wear this one, Sweetheart.
- Your Alex
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
"My Al-- Absolutely not," she muttered to the empty hallway.
Twenty minutes later, the dress was hanging from her bathroom door while she stared at it like it had personally insulted her.
The fabric fell in clean black lines without embellishment or obvious structure. No sequins. No dramatic neckline. Nothing trying too hard. The kind of dress that looked simple until someone touched it and realized simplicity at that level cost more than rent.
Which annoyed her.
Because it fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
By the time Galathea arrived at Artemis that evening, the fundraiser had already transformed the gallery into something brighter and more dishonest than usual.
Crystal chandeliers reflected against polished marble floors while servers in black uniforms moved carefully through the crowd balancing champagne flutes and silver trays of untouched appetizers. Donor laughter drifted through the upper gallery levels in practiced bursts, loud enough to signal status without becoming vulgar.
Money always sounded relaxed when surrounded by itself.
Galathea stepped through the lobby entrance adjusting the cuff of her coat sleeve once before handing it to reception.
Paula looked up from the guest tablet first.
Then froze.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Her gaze traveled over the dress slowly before returning to Galathea's face with sharpened interest.
"Oh," Paula said lightly. "You clean up expensive."
Galathea accepted her event badge without reacting. "You say that like I usually arrive covered in swamp water."
Paula smiled too sweetly. "That dress isn't department store expensive."
Here we go.
Galathea kept her expression flat. "Good thing it isn't your business then."
But Paula kept looking.
Not at the dress itself.
At the implications.
That was the problem with institutions like Artemis. Wealth trained people to recognize signals invisible to everyone else.
And Paula collected signals like currency.
The gallery floor glowed beneath soft amber lighting, every sculpture and painting staged carefully between clusters of donors and collectors. Jazz drifted quietly through hidden speakers while the city skyline stretched beyond the glass walls in fractured ribbons of gold.
Galathea accepted a champagne flute from a passing server mostly because having something in her hand discouraged conversation.
Unfortunately, Artemis employees considered silence suspicious.
She made it halfway toward the surrealist wing before hearing Cael Alexander's voice somewhere near the center gallery.
Low.
Controlled.
Familiar enough that her attention found him automatically.
He stood surrounded by donors near the exhibition staircase, dark suit perfectly tailored, one hand tucked into his pocket while some museum sponsor laughed too hard at something he clearly had not meant as a joke.
Effortless.
That was the dangerous thing about him.
Cael never appeared powerful in the loud way wealthy men often preferred. No performance. No visible effort.
Just gravity.
And tonight, unfortunately, he looked directly at her the second she stepped into the room.
His gaze moved once over the dress.
Then lingered briefly on her face.
A small pause.
Approval.
Galathea hated the warmth that immediately climbed into her chest at that look.
Across the room, another woman noticed it too.
Seraphina Vale stood near the sculpture corridor in silver silk that caught the gallery light like sharpened metal. Everything about her looked curated beyond perfection, from the smooth twist of her hair to the diamond bracelet resting carelessly against her wrist.
She turned toward Galathea slowly.
And immediately recognized the dress.
Galathea saw it happen in real time.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Seraphina's eyes flicked once toward Cael.
Ah.
There it is.
That realization settled elegantly across her face before she crossed the room.
"Cael," Seraphina purred smoothly as she reached his side, slipping one hand lightly around his arm. "You throw beautiful parties when you're trying to distract people."
Cael glanced toward her calmly. "Good evening, Seraphina."
Her smile deepened slightly. "Still using full sentences as emotional protection. Comforting."
Galathea should have walked away then.
Instead she stayed exactly where she was, champagne glass balanced carefully between her fingers while Seraphina's attention slid toward her like a blade testing silk.
"And this must be Galathea Brooks," Seraphina said.
Not asking.
Knowing.
Galathea inclined her head politely. "Unfortunately, yes."
That earned the faintest twitch from Cael's mouth.
Seraphina noticed that too.
Interesting.
"The dress is exquisite," Seraphina continued smoothly. "Very restrained."
Galathea glanced down once at the black fabric. "That's a polite way of saying it has no personality."
"No," Seraphina replied softly. "It means someone with old money chose it."
There it was.
Straight to the throat.
Galathea felt her pulse stumble once before recovering.
Beside Seraphina, Cael remained perfectly still.
Which somehow made it worse.
Galathea lifted her champagne flute slightly. "Then whoever chose it clearly enjoys financial violence."
A quiet laugh escaped Seraphina.
Cael's eyes remained on Galathea the entire time.
Watching.
Always watching.
The orchestra music shifted softly somewhere deeper in the gallery while donors drifted around them discussing acquisitions and restoration grants with the detached seriousness wealthy people reserved for hobbies.
Seraphina's hand remained loosely looped around Cael's arm.
Almost intimate.
Almost territorial.
And Galathea hated noticing that.
She also hated noticing Cael's smug smirk when he saw her eyes widen slightly as her eyes reached his pocket square, which was the same exact fabric, texture and color as her dress.
"Careful," Seraphina murmured lightly toward Cael. "You're developing visible preferences."
Cael finally looked at her directly. "You came here to gossip?"
"I came here," Seraphina replied, "because Artemis has become interesting again."
The words landed strangely.
Not flirtation.
Warning.
Galathea felt it immediately.
So did Cael.
His posture shifted almost imperceptibly beside Seraphina.
Attention sharpening.
Across the room, Paula pretended very badly not to watch them.
Wonderful.
Galathea exhaled quietly and stepped away before the conversation could become more dangerous.
"I'm going to check the west display before one of these people leans on a sculpture worth more than my student loans," she said dryly.
"An admirable concern," Seraphina replied.
Galathea walked toward the surrealist exhibit without looking back.
The farther she moved from the donor crowd, the quieter the gallery became. The lighting softened near the sculpture wing, shadows stretching longer between installations while the hum of conversation faded beneath the low jazz drifting overhead.
Mouth of the City stood near the far wall beneath directed lighting.
Twisted bronze.
Jagged crystal embedded through warped metal like teeth caught mid-bite.
Galathea slowed beside the velvet rope.
Something about the sculpture felt wrong tonight.
Not visually.
Familiar.
Her skin buzzed faintly beneath the sleeves of the dress.
The same sensation from the vault.
The same awareness pressing quietly beneath her nerves.
Behind her, donor laughter echoed sharply through the gallery.
Galathea reached automatically toward the velvet rope to straighten it.
Her fingertips brushed the sculpture base instead.
Everything vanished.
Sound disappeared first.
Then heat slammed into her.
Oil paint.
Smoke.
Rotting water.
A workshop unfolded violently around her, cramped and feverishly hot beneath gas lamps that flickered against stained brick walls. Canvases crowded every surface while a man stumbled backward through them with paint-slick hands and terror carved deep into his face.
"No--" His voice cracked apart. "Please-- don't take it--"
The canvas before him writhed.
A city painted in deep blues and sickly golds bent inward unnaturally as streets flooded beneath dark water that moved like living ink. Painted people ran through collapsing buildings with unfinished faces, their bodies half-formed beneath frantic brushstrokes.
The artist clawed at the painting desperately.
The city drowned anyway.
Quietly.
Like something designed to disappear.
Then the screaming started.
Galathea staggered backward hard enough that the champagne glass slipped from her hand.
It shattered across the marble floor.
The sound snapped through the gallery like a gunshot.
Several donors turned immediately.
Galathea's heel caught against the pedestal edge as her balance gave out beneath her.
Across the room, Seraphina stopped speaking mid-sentence.
Because Cael had already moved.
He shrugged her hand from his arm without even looking at her and crossed the gallery floor fast enough that people instinctively parted around him.
Galathea barely saw him coming.
The room warped sickeningly around the edges as she lost balance backward toward the broken glass scattered beneath her heels.
Then a hand caught her elbow.
Momentum carried her forward instead.
Her shoulder collided hard against Cael's chest while his arm wrapped firmly around her before her heel could come down into the broken crystal..
Solid.
Steady.
Real.
The buzzing under her skin roared violently.
"Galathea." His voice cut cleanly through the noise.
She could barely hear it over the pounding in her skull.
The screaming artist still echoed somewhere behind her eyes.
Cael brushed fallen hair back from her face instinctively before checking her quickly for injuries. "Are you hurt?"
Galathea looked past him instead.
People were staring now.
Donors.
Staff.
Waiters frozen beside silver trays.
Paula watching openly from across the room.
Humiliation hit harder than the dizziness. Not the fall itself. The audience.
Cael's hand tightened once around her arm. "Look at me a second."
Quiet.
Controlled.
Not a request.
Her gaze finally lifted to his.
Too close.
She realized then that he had reached her before anyone else moved.
That realization unsettled her almost as much as the memory itself.
"I'm fine," she managed hoarsely.
A lie.
Cael clearly knew it too.
The muscles in his jaw tightened briefly before he guided her upright carefully, one arm still firm around her shoulders to keep her steady.
He shot a look at Paula, "Do your job."
"Ladies and gentlemen," Paula's voice breaks the murmurs smoothly, "apparently our sculpture installation remains emotionally effective."
A few uneasy laughs scattered through the room.
Deflection.
Control restored.
"We're leaving," he said calmly.
"Cael," Seraphina called from behind them.
He didn't even turn around.
That silence landed louder than if he had answered.
Galathea felt it immediately in the room around them.
People noticed.
Of course they noticed.
Cael guided her through the gallery floor without removing his hand from her arm once. Donors stepped aside automatically while conversations lowered into murmurs behind them.
Paula watched the entire thing with naked fascination.
Wonderful.
Exactly what her nervous system needed tonight.
Cael pushed open a staff-access corridor door and led her into the quieter service hallway behind the gallery.
The music disappeared instantly.
So did the crowd.
Galathea leaned heavily against the wall the second the door shut behind them.
The fluorescent hallway lighting felt mercifully dull compared to the gala floor.
"What was that?" she asked unsteadily.
Cael stayed close enough to catch her again if necessary.
"A memory shard," he said quietly.
Her stomach twisted. "It felt real."
"It was real," he replied. "Just not yours."
Galathea pressed trembling fingers against her temple. "I touched it for half a second."
"That seems to be enough now," Cael answered.
The corridor lights flickered once overhead.
Both of them noticed.
Cael's expression hardened immediately.
"You're bleeding into the archive faster than before," he said.
"Comforting." She exhaled.
"It wasn't meant to be." His hand remained steady against her upper arm.
Grounding.
Careful.
Dangerously familiar.
Galathea exhaled shakily. "I just humiliated myself in front of half the city."
"No," Cael said calmly. "You nearly collapsed."
"That's somehow worse. The only thing missing is a nip slip." She palmed her eyes.
"Oh, Sweetheart, as much as I would love that, you've got to give my choice of dress more credit." Cael said smoothly chuckling.
A faint breath almost resembling amusement left her before footsteps clicked sharply down the corridor behind them.
Paula emerged from the gallery entrance with a bottle of cold water.
Of course she had followed.
Her gaze moved slowly between them-- the trembling in Galathea's hands, Cael's protective posture, the fact that his attention remained entirely fixed on Galathea even now.
Then Paula smiled.
Bright.
Hungry.
Knowing.
"Well," she said softly, "people are going to love this."