This woman had spent hours—actual human hours—learning about art placement, collector psychology, and light refraction angles. Not because she gave a single fuck about art. Because she gave a fuck about doing her job right.
"Thank you," Celeste said quietly.
Helena's expression didn't change. "Don't thank me. Just tell me where you want the next piece."
Two Hours Later
They'd fallen into a rhythm.
Celeste would indicate a piece, explain its significance, articulate her vision in passionate, borderline manic detail.
Helena would calculate placement, test sight lines, adjust positioning with precision that bordered on obsessive, occasionally muttering things like "this angle makes the buyer feel superior" or "this one triggers mild existential dread—good for high-ticket sales."
And somewhere in that process, the conversation had started.
