The fundraiser made Artemis glow like it was lying.
Crystal lights dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. Champagne flowed with practiced generosity. Donors in tailored silk and polished smiles drifted through the upper gallery floor as if art was a natural extension of their bodies -- something they wore, collected, and discarded when the season changed.
Galathea Brooks wore a black dress she'd bought on sale and prayed no one would recognize from a "last chance" rack. The fabric fit well enough, but she still felt like an impostor in a room built for people who never checked their bank accounts.
She kept her smile in place anyway. Professional. Controlled.
Her eyes kept finding her boss, Cael Alexander.
He stood near the center of the crowd like an axis everything rotated around -- dark suit, calm expression, donor laughter orbiting him. He looked effortless, which should have been comforting given the last week.
It wasn't.
Because Galathea now knew what lived under this building. She knew the Keys reacted to her. She knew touch could spike something ancient awake.
And yet she'd been instructed -- politely, firmly 00 to attend.
'Visibility is protection,' Cael had said earlier. 'And absence invites questions.'
Galathea had wanted to reply that her entire life was one long absence from wealth and power, and the world had never stopped asking questions. She'd swallowed it instead.
Now she stood near a catering table pretending to care about imported olives, listening to a donor explain to another donor how "modern surrealism is really about trauma."
Galathea took a sip of champagne and thought, 'so is my overdraft fee.'
A laugh cut through the noise -- sharp, elegant, predatory.
Seraphina Vale moved through the crowd like she was the one who owned the building.
She was tall, dressed in silver that caught light like a weapon, hair pinned back in a sleek twist. Everything about her was curated to suggest she didn't try. The room parted for her on instinct.
She slid to Cael's side with familiar ease.
Galathea's stomach tightened in a way she refused to name.
Seraphina's smile was flawless. "Cael. Darling. You always throw such tasteful events."
Cael's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "Seraphina."
"Still so formal," Seraphina purred, touching his arm lightly, possessively, as if it was a reminder for everyone watching. "You used to be less… restrained."
Galathea's grip tightened on her glass. Breathe, she ordered herself. 'This is not your business.'
Cael's voice remained calm. "The donors appreciate restraint."
Seraphina's gaze flicked -- just once -- toward Galathea, catching her in the periphery like a knife testing the edge. Then she smiled brighter, as if she'd found something amusing.
"And who is this?" Seraphina asked, voice sweet.
Galathea's jaw tightened. Cael didn't answer immediately, and that half-second felt like a test all its own.
"This is Galathea Brooks," Cael said finally. "Collections coordination."
"Ah," Seraphina said, drawing the sound out. "The one who keeps the numbers obedient."
Galathea forced a smile. "Someone has to keep the art from unionizing."
Seraphina laughed lightly, too polished to be real. "Oh, I adore a woman with teeth. Cael does too, don't you?"
Cael's gaze stayed on Seraphina, but his posture shifted subtly -- an almost imperceptible angle that placed him between Seraphina and Galathea.
Is it protection? Or is it control? Galathea couldn't tell anymore.
Seraphina leaned closer to Cael, voice lowering in a way that still carried. "Tell me, darling -- why the surrealist piece? It's so… bleak. It doesn't match your usual taste."
Cael's eyes cooled. "My tastes evolve."
Seraphina smiled knowingly. "Do they? Or are they… influenced?"
Galathea's pulse jumped. The word hit wrong.
Cael's voice was still calm, but a sharper edge slid under it. "You didn't come here to discuss art."
Seraphina's eyes glittered. "Of course I did. Isn't that what we all pretend at these things?"
Galathea's stomach churned with the instinct to leave, to retreat to a corner where she could breathe without feeling observed.
But Cael's gaze flicked to her then -- brief, steady -- and it felt like an anchor.
'Stay,' the look said. 'Don't run.'
Galathea held her glass tighter.
Behind her, Paula's voice rose in bright, performative laughter. Galathea could practically feel Paula's eyes on her like heat, the way Paula always watched for something to sell later.
Seraphina tilted her head. "It's fascinating," she continued, voice silky, "how Artemis has become… unpredictable recently."
Cael didn't react, but Galathea did. Her chest tightened.
"Unpredictable?" Galathea echoed before she could stop herself.
Seraphina's gaze snapped to her, pleased. "Oh. Did I strike a nerve?"
Galathea forced a shrug. "I'm just surprised anyone notices anything beyond the champagne."
Seraphina's smile sharpened. "Some of us notice patterns."
Cael's tone cut in -- soft, dangerous. "Seraphina."
But Seraphina only smiled wider. "Don't worry. I'm sure your staff is very well trained."
Galathea's skin prickled. Something about the way Seraphina said trained made her feel like a specimen pinned under glass.
The room felt too bright suddenly. Too loud. Too full of eyes.
Galathea needed movement -- something physical to cut through the tension.
She stepped away under the pretense of checking an exhibit barrier, weaving through the crowd toward a sculpture display near the far wall. The piece was new, a towering figure of twisted bronze and crystal shards titled Mouth of the City. Appropriate.
Galathea reached for the velvet rope to adjust it --
And her fingertips brushed the sculpture's base.
The world cracked.
Sound vanished first, swallowed by a sudden, brutal silence.
Then the memory hit her like a blade.
She wasn't in the gallery anymore.
She was in a workshop -- hot, stinking of oil and sweat and panic. A man stood over a canvas, hands smeared in paint like blood. His eyes were wild, mouth stretched in a scream that no one answered.
"NO --" the man shouted, voice tearing. "DON'T TAKE IT -- DON'T TAKE MY CITY --"
The canvas in front of him warped, the painted streets inside it bending like drowning bodies. Buildings tilted. Windows melted. A horizon line snapped like a bone.
And then water.
Not real water --painted water, thick and dark, flooding the streets inside the canvas. People --painted people --ran, faces smeared in terror, limbs half-finished as if the artist hadn't had time to give them fingers.
The city drowned politely, the way a painting might: quietly, efficiently, without splashing.
The artist screamed again, clawing at the canvas, nails scraping varnish. "PLEASE --"
His scream turned into Galathea's.
She staggered back in the real gallery, chest seizing, breath ripped out of her lungs. Her vision blurred. The glittering crowd became warped shapes, faces stretched too long, lights too sharp.
She clutched the edge of the pedestal to keep from falling.
Someone grabbed her elbow.
"Galathea."
Cael's voice cut through the panic like a knife through fabric.
She turned her head slightly and saw him -- close, too close -- eyes hard, focused, furious with a kind of fear he'd never admit.
"I--" Galathea tried, but her throat locked. Her skin buzzed with leftover static, with the echo of screaming.
Cael's hand tightened on her arm. "We're leaving."
"Cael," Seraphina called from behind, voice amused. "Is your staff fainting now part of the entertainment?"
Cael didn't look at her. "Keep smiling," he murmured to Galathea. "If you can."
Galathea tried. It came out like a grimace.
Cael guided her through the crowd with practiced ease, his grip steady, his body angled to shield her. Galathea's feet moved on autopilot, heels clicking as if nothing was wrong.
But inside her skull, the screaming artist still raged.
The drowning city still collapsed.
Cael pushed open a staff-only door and hauled her into the back corridor, away from music and laughter and crystal lights. The moment the door shut, Galathea sagged against the wall, trembling.
"What --" she rasped. "What was that?"
"A memory shard," Cael said, voice low. His face was tight, controlled fury barely contained. "From the sculpture."
Galathea shook her head, dizzy. "It wasn't mine."
"No," Cael replied. "But you felt it like it was."
Her stomach twisted. "It was screaming."
Cael's gaze flicked over her face, checking her pupils, her breathing, the tremor in her hands. "You're bleeding into the archive."
Galathea swallowed hard. "I touched it for half a second."
Cael's jaw clenched. "That's all it takes."
The corridor light flickered faintly above them, like the building was listening again.
Cael stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Can you walk?"
Galathea nodded shakily. "Yes."
"Good," Cael said. "Because we're not staying where people can watch you unravel."
His hand slid to her lower back -- not intimate, not gentle, simply steady. "We go now."
Galathea pushed off the wall, forcing her legs to move, forcing her breathing to slow.
They turned the corner--
And Paula stood there.
She'd clearly followed. Her face was lit by the corridor light, eyes wide with something bright and hungry.
Galathea froze.
Paula's gaze flicked from Galathea's trembling hands to Cael's protective posture, to the way his body shielded her like it was instinct.
Paula smiled, slow and vicious.
Then she leaned in close enough that Galathea could smell her perfume --sweet, artificial.
"I know what you are," Paula whispered.