2. Elise
ELISE
The morning light through the gallery windows felt wrong.
I stood in the middle of the main room with my arms crossed, looking at the empty walls.
We'd taken the gala pieces down two days ago, and now the space needed filling again.
The silence pressed in around me, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional car passing outside.
This part was mine. Choosing the work. Deciding what belonged where, what would sell, what deserved a chance even if it wouldn't.
Nobody was here to watch me do it.
I pulled the first canvas from the storage rack, a small abstract in blues and grays, and held it up against the north wall.
The light hit it wrong. Too flat. I moved it to the east wall, tilted my head, squinted at it the way Graham did when he was thinking.
Better. The morning sun would catch the texture, bring out the dimension the artist had buried in the layers.
I leaned it against the wall and went back for the next one.
The door opened behind me, the bells chiming, and I turned expecting the courier.
It was Petra. She had a coffee in one hand, her bag over her shoulder, wearing tailored pants and a silk blouse that probably cost more than I made in a month.
She smiled when she saw me, bright and easy, like we were friends.
"Good morning, Elise."
My stomach dropped. "Morning."
She set her bag down on the counter near the front, making herself comfortable, and took a slow sip of her coffee.
Her eyes swept the room, cataloging the empty walls, the canvases I'd already pulled.
She didn't ask what I was working on. She just stood there, watching me like I was part of the gallery's inventory.
I turned back to the wall and lifted the abstract into place, marking the spot with my finger.
"Is Graham in yet?" Petra asked.
"Not till this afternoon."
"Oh." She sounded pleased about that, which made my jaw tighten. "Well, I thought I'd come by and see how things are coming along. Beatrice mentioned you'd be resetting the floor today."
Of course she did.
I didn't answer. I went back to the storage racks and pulled another canvas, this one larger, a landscape with too much green in it. I didn't love it, but it would sell. People liked landscapes. They liked things they could recognize, things that didn't ask too much of them.
Petra drifted closer, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She stopped a few feet away, still holding her coffee, and watched me work. I could feel her eyes on me, cataloging every choice I made, and it crawled under my skin like an itch I couldn't scratch.
"That's lovely," she said, nodding at the landscape. "Very accessible."
The word landed like she meant it as a compliment. It wasn't.
I set the canvas down and wiped my hands on my pants, even though they weren't dirty. "I need to make a call," I said. My voice came out steady, almost polite. "Excuse me."
I walked to the back office before she could say anything else and shut the door behind me. My hands were shaking. God, I hated that they were shaking. I sat down at the desk, pulled out my phone, and stared at Anya Lindqvist's number for a long moment before I hit call.
She answered on the third ring. "Elise."
"Anya. Hi." I took a breath, steadied myself. "I wanted to check in about the contract. I know we talked last week, but I wanted to make sure you'd had a chance to look it over."
There was a pause on the other end, the sound of her moving something, papers maybe.
Anya didn't do anything quickly. She was deliberate about everything, which was part of why every other gallery in the city had given up on her.
She was difficult. She was exacting. She only worked with people she trusted, and she didn't trust anyone.
Except me.
"I looked at it," she said finally. Her voice was low, rough, the kind of voice that came from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. "It's fine. I'll sign."
Relief flooded through me, warm and overwhelming. "That's wonderful. I can bring the paperwork by tomorrow if that works for you."
"Tomorrow's good." She paused. "You're bringing it. Not Graham."
It wasn't a question.
"I'll bring it," I said.
"Good."
We talked for another few minutes, logistics mostly, delivery schedules and gallery space and which pieces she wanted to show first. Anya had opinions about everything, and I let her talk, nodding along even though she couldn't see me.
This was the part I was good at. Listening.
Making the artist feel like they mattered, like their work mattered, like signing with us was the best decision they could make.
When I hung up, my hands had stopped shaking.
I stayed in the office for another minute, just breathing, staring at the closed door.
I could hear Petra's heels clicking around in the main room, steady and confident, the sound of someone who belonged.
I wanted to stay in here until she left.
I wanted to wait her out, avoid her entirely, pretend she wasn't inserting herself into my gallery, my work, my life.
But that was ridiculous, and I knew it.
I stood up, smoothed my shirt, and opened the door.
Petra was standing in front of the abstract I'd chosen, her head tilted, considering it. She glanced over when I came out, her expression thoughtful. "This is interesting," she said. "Who's the artist?"
"Callum Hayes."
"Mm." She took another sip of her coffee. "I like it. Good choice."
I didn't say thank you. I walked past her to the storage racks and pulled the next canvas, keeping my eyes on the work, focusing on the rhythm of it. Choose, consider, place. Choose, consider, place. This was mine. This part belonged to me, and I wasn't going to let her take it.
The bells chimed again, and this time it was Graham.
He came in carrying his jacket over one arm, his shirt sleeves already rolled up, looking like he'd been working for hours even though it was barely eleven. His hair was slightly messed up, the way it got when he'd been running his hands through it, and when he saw Petra his whole face lit up.
"Petra. I didn't know you were coming in today."
She smiled at him, easy and warm. "I thought I'd stop by. See how the reset was going."
Graham's eyes swept the room, taking in the canvases I'd pulled, the ones I'd already placed. He nodded, distracted, already thinking about something else. "Looks good. Elise has a good system for this."
A good system.
Not a good eye. Not that I'd built this entire rotation from scratch. A system.
I turned back to the wall and lifted the next piece into place, my jaw so tight it ached.
"I wanted to talk to you about the Lindqvist contract," I said. My voice came out calm, professional, like I wasn't furious. Like I wasn't screaming inside. "She's ready to sign."
Graham looked over, surprised. "She is? That's fantastic." He glanced at Petra. "Anya Lindqvist is one of the most difficult artists in the city. We've been trying to bring her in for two years."
"Elise has been working on her," Petra said. She sounded genuinely impressed, which somehow made it worse. "That's wonderful, Elise."
I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on the canvas, adjusting it slightly to the left, then back to the right. "I'm bringing the paperwork to her tomorrow."
"Perfect." Graham came closer, stopping beside me to look at the abstract. His shoulder brushed mine, solid and warm, and I stepped back without thinking. He didn't notice. "This is Hayes, right? I like this one."
He'd like it. I'd chosen it knowing he'd like it, knowing it would sell, knowing exactly what kind of buyer would walk in here and fall in love with it. That was my job. That's what I'd been doing for eleven years.
But he didn't say that.
Petra moved to join us, standing on Graham's other side, and suddenly the three of us were clustered in front of the wall like a team. Like we were collaborating. Like this was something we were doing together.
My throat went tight.
"What about the Delacroix piece?" Petra asked. She gestured toward the storage racks. "The small bronze sculpture. I saw it in the back the other day."
Graham frowned slightly. "I don't know that one."
"It's new," I said. My voice sounded thin, distant, like it was coming from somewhere outside my body. "I picked it up from an estate sale last month."
Petra nodded. "I think it would work beautifully in the front corner. Draw people in as they come through the door."
I stared at her. The front corner was wrong. The light was wrong, the scale was wrong, anyone who knew anything about sculpture would know it was wrong. But she was smiling at Graham like she'd just solved a problem, and he was nodding along, considering it.
"Let's take a look," Graham said.
I walked to the back and pulled the Delacroix from the shelf where I'd stored it, carefully wrapped.
It was small, maybe ten inches tall, a figure in bronze with a beautiful patina I'd fallen in love with the moment I'd seen it.
I'd been planning to put it on the center pedestal near the window where the afternoon light would catch the details, bring out the sculptor's marks.
I unwrapped it and set it on the counter.
Petra reached out and touched it, her fingers trailing over the bronze surface. "It's beautiful," she said. "Delicate. I think it would be perfect in the corner."
"I was thinking the center pedestal," I said.
The words came out before I could stop them, quiet and careful, not quite an argument. Just a different opinion. Just me doing the job I'd been doing for eleven years.
Petra glanced at me, her smile still in place. "The center pedestal?" She tilted her head, considering. "I don't know. I think it might get lost there. Too much space around it. It needs something more intimate."
"The light's better at the center," I said. "It'll catch the patina."
"Mm." She looked back at the sculpture, then at Graham. "What do you think?"
He was looking at the piece, his hand on his jaw, that expression he got when he was working through a problem.
I waited. I wanted him to say something.
I wanted him to ask me why I'd chosen the center pedestal, what I'd seen in the piece that made me think it belonged there.
I wanted him to defend my choice, to say that I knew what I was doing, that I'd been doing this longer than Petra had been in the building.
But he didn't.
"I think Petra's right," he said. "The corner would work. More intimate. It'll feel like a discovery."
The words hit me like a slap.
I stared at the sculpture, my vision blurring slightly, and nodded. "Okay."
My voice sounded normal. Agreeable. Like I didn't care either way.
Petra picked up the piece, handling it carefully, and carried it to the front corner. She set it down on the pedestal there, stepped back, and smiled. "Perfect."
Graham followed her, standing beside her to look at it. They were talking now, something about scale and placement and how the corner really did make it feel more intimate. Their voices blended together, easy and collaborative, like they'd been working together for years.
I stayed where I was, my hands pressed flat against the counter.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to walk over there and tell them both that they were wrong, that the light was terrible in that corner, that the sculpture would look like an afterthought instead of the centerpiece it deserved to be.
I wanted to tell Graham that I'd chosen every piece in this gallery for eight years, that I knew what I was doing, that he was supposed to trust me.
But I didn't say any of it.
I just stood there, silent, watching them arrange my work like I wasn't even in the room.
"Elise?" Graham called. "Can you bring the Hayes over here? I want to see it next to the window."
I picked up the abstract and carried it over, moving like I was on autopilot. I held it up where he pointed, and he stepped back, considering it. Petra stood beside him, her arms crossed, nodding along.
"That's good," Graham said. "Yeah. That works."
I set the canvas down and stepped back.
Nobody said thank you. Nobody said anything. They were already moving on to the next piece, the next decision, the next thing that needed doing. I was just the person holding the paintings.
The wedding ring on my finger felt heavy suddenly, like something pulling me down. I twisted it without thinking, around and around, the metal warm against my skin.
Graham didn't notice. He was talking to Petra about the next show, about an artist she'd mentioned, about timelines and logistics and everything that came next. His voice was animated, excited, the way it got when he was in his element.
I looked at him, this man I'd loved for eleven years, and realized he had no idea what he'd just done.
He had no idea what Petra had done either.
And I wasn't going to tell him.