The last guests had left hours ago, but Artemis Art Gallery never truly slept. At just the first glance, one would recognize its halls as an expensive place -- lighting with intent and curated silence. Even the air felt controlled: cool, with faint scents of varnish and polished stone, as if the building itself refused to let anything within sweat.
Galathea Brooks should have been long gone by now.
Instead, she was kneeling on the exhibition floor with a tablet balanced in her thigh and a stack of shipment forms fanned beside her like a losing hand. Her blazer had been draped over a bench to keep it from wrinkling, sleeves of her laced black blouse were rolled up to the elbow in stubborn defiance of every corporate rule that required her to look "presentable" at all times within the boundaries of the Gallery.
"Presentable," she whispered a scoff, eyes flickering across the screen. "Sure. For what? The paintings?" Her eyes darted across the room to a surrealist painting under a softly humming spotlight. She quickly averted her eyes from this thing that tugs at the cogs of her mind, not because she was intimidated by the masterpiece, but because she hated being reminded that such a small thing is worth twice her year's salary.
The nightshift checklist blinked on her tablet: secure inventory tags, confirm new insurance stamps, verify lighting schedule override. It was administrative misery disguised as prestige. Artemis curated art that could move markets, stir donor s to tears, get written up in glossy magazines -- and Galathea, with her underpaid desk job, was the one stuck confirming barcode sequences.
She tapped the last field and sighed through her nose.
"Okay," she muttered. "Scan, stamp, survive."
A soft click echoed somewhere behind her.
Galathea froze, stylus hovering.
Like every building, this one has ambient sounds -- settling pipes, distant ventilation, the occasional hum of the elevator -- but this click was different. Crisp. Intentional. Like shoe on a stone.
Her pulse seemed to get louder, out of annoyance, rather than fear.
If it was security, she was going to have a conversation about staying hours after night shift has ended, which is only until midnight, and it's already 1:15AM. That conversation will lead to a report, then a summons, then unpaid suspension or termination.
'Fuck,' she swore in her head. 'Gods. It's not Paula, is it? She won't put in this much effort for some gossip... She better not, or I would happily toss her into a sculpture installation and tag it as performance art!'
Galathea rose quietly, tablet held close, the screen backlight causing an illuminated outline against her chest. She paused to observe for any movement, any sound.
Nothing.
The exhibition hall stretched long and immaculate, the shadows between displays looked deeper at night as if the art demanded privacy.
Galathea narrowed her eyes. "Hello?" she called, controlling the loudness of her voice.
Silence.
Then -- another sound. Not a footstep this time. A faint shift. Fabric, maybe, but it's a breath too controlled.
Galathea's spine tightened.
Someone was lurking somewhere in the gallery. She didn't see them yet, but she felt it in the pressure if the room. The way the air seemed to draw inward, like it had been waiting for her to notice. Like she'd been alone only because whoever watched her, wanted it that way.
Galathea's first reaction was irritation, followed by a survival instinct.
She slipped her tablet behind her, tucking it in the waistband of her pants, she did not want to leave it. With all the important information on there, she'd rather go down with it. She stepped toward the nearest display wall, slightly crouching in a defense position with a pen in one hand. She moved closer to the darker end of the hall.
"If this is a prank," she called in a sharp but lowered voice, "it's not funny. Also, Artemis has cameras everywhere, so congratulations on being recorded, idiot."
A low chuckle answered from the shadows.
Galathea's stomach flipped -- not from fear, but from recognition. That voice had the kind of smoothness that made it sound like it was the law. It was a voice that irritated Galathea when she was an intern who went over her tasks twice or sometimes thrice as the owner of this voice demanded.
Cael Alexander stepped into the light as if the spotlight had been waiting for him. He did not wear any blazer or overcoat like he usually did; just a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, exposing his ink on both arms, his tie bunched up in one hand, collar open to one too many buttons, exposing the obvious chiseled bulge of his pectorals, as if he'd peeled off professionalism layer by layer.
He ran an empty hand through his brushed up hair, triggering some to dangle just by his forehead. Even in this state, everything about him still said control -- right down to the quiet confidence of walking into a locked gallery after hours like it belonged to him.
Which, technically, it did.
Galthea's pulse spiked anyway. "Are you stalking employees now?" she said straightening up, pocketing her pen and reaching for the tablet from her back.
During Galathea's intern days, she worked directly under Cael. This made their professional relationship closer and less formal than usual. Which is why Galathea is always in Paula's crosshairs when it comes to gossip.
Cael's gaze skimmed her -- rolled sleeves, loosened hair, half buttoned blouse exposing a laced tank top that left little to the imagination, the faint crease between her eyebrows that meant she was two seconds from biting someone. He knew the that look very well. Still, his expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened as if he liked what he saw.
"Working late?" He said, tilting his head.
"Accounting of the apocalypse," Galathea replied. "Somebody has to make sure the art doesn't spontaneously combust from its own importance."
Cael's mouth twitched, "And you volunteered?"
"I was volun-told," she corrected. "There's a difference."
He glanced at her tablet. "You're off the clock."
Galathea lifted her chin. "And yet, here you are -- also off the clock. Unless you're planning to invoice the paintings for your presence."
Cael moved closer -- slowly, deliberately -- and the distance between them shrank in way that made the air feel warmer.
Galathea was used to this attitude of Cael's that seemed to be designated only for her. He has this handsome mafia boss aura that would make most girls fall to their knees but somehow it had no effect on Galathea. Cael has made it a point to tease her constantly since he noticed.
So, Galathea did not step back. Not out of lack of caution, but because stepping back felt like conceding something.
"Why do you always talk to me like you'll unsheathe a sword any second?" Cael asked with a smirk and something that made his eyes glint in the low-lit gallery.
Galathea glared at him. "Why do you always ask questions like you're trying to get cut?"
His gazed dipped to her knuckles which turned white with how tight she gripped her tablet. "Why so tense?"
"Because a billionaire CEO just appeared out of nowhere in a dark gallery," Galathea said flatly. "That's not relaxing; that's the beginning of a crime documentary."
"Relax," he said in a smooth low tone. "No one's gonna bother you."
Galathea made to laugh sarcastically. "That's hilarious, because you're currently bothering me."
Cael's eyes bore into hers. "Glad you're amused."
Galathea hated the way her body reacted to him -- alert, charged, like her nervous system had decided he was important before her brain could object. She shifted her weight, trying to look indifferent.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
Cael's gaze flicked over the art beside them, then returned to her. "to see who stays behind when the building empties."
Galathea's mouth tightened. "You mean who's desperate enough to work unpaid."
"Or who wasn't fast enough to finish their task." Cael retorted, still wearing that smirk as he took another step, closing the distance until Galathea's senses were filled with his scent -- woody, musky, and a hint of citrus and blackcurrant.
Galathea's breath hitched before she could stop it.
Cael noticed.
His attention landed on her throat, where her pulse betrayed her. Then his eyes lifted again, and his voice dropped another note lower. "Did I make your heart flutter just by standing this close?"
That tone did something to her belly but she shoved it behind a wall of indifference. Narrowing her eyes, she said, "Don't flatter yourself."
"Not at all," he backed away a little, "Just observing, sweetheart." He made a move to rest a hand on her shoulders. To which, Galathea's skin froze even though the touch hadn't landed.
"Touch me and I am charging three times the high-bar consulting fees." She snapped, turning to walk away from him.
There was a faint curve on Cael's lips. "And what do you consult on?"
"Surviving Artemis with a functioning nervous system." She answered knowingly.
He walked beside Galathea, keeping up with her pace so his warmth hovered so near her exposed arm.
Galathea swallowed. She hated that some part of her wanted him to close the gap.
"It's late," Cael said, eyes steady. "You should go home."
"And you should stop haunting your own gallery," Galathea snapped. "Yet here we both are."
A new sound cut through the hall.
A sharp buzz. Then a distant click-click-click --- the unmistakable rhythm of a security patrol door unlocking somewhere down the corridor.
Galathea's head snapped toward the sound. "Oh, perfect," she muttered a whisper.
Cael's gaze shifted, calculating, "Must be time for rounds."
"Clearly." Galathea hissed. "Unless Artemis itself sprouted legs."
The footsteps grew louder, tuning into the exhibition wing. A flashlight beam swept across the far wall, bright and searching.
Galathea's heart slammed against her ribs. She wasn't supposed to be here, and it's even worse being caught with Cael again like this. It didn't end well, the last time it happened. Damn Paula.
Sensing her panic, Cael held her wrist. It wasn't forceful. It wasn't rough. It was certain.
Galathea's breath caught, and for one electric second, everything in her narrowed to the single point of contact.
Cael pulled her toward the shadowed space behind the tall sculptural partition -- a metal lattice installation meant to look abstract and expensive. They slipped behind it just as the patrol's flashlight beam cut across the floor where they'd been standing.
With Galathea's back against the partition, she was pressed against Cael in the small space, so close that she could feel his heat and his muscular form through the fabric. His grip remained on her wrist, thumb resting against the inside, where her pulse jumped like a trapped thing. Her other hand was on his bared chest and his other hand clutched her waist.
The coincidence that his shirt exposed his pumped chest and Galathea's half-unbuttoned blouse exposed her skin-tight tank top that nearly spilled her breasts turned out to be both an invitation and a threat in this situation.
The patrol's footsteps moved nearer. The flashlight beam swept again.
Galathea held her breath.
Cael leaned down, his mouth grazing the pierced helix of Glathea's right ear. "Don't move," he whispered.
It was almost inaudible but this words against her skin sent a shock through her that had nothing to do with fear. Galathea's mind scrambled for something sarcastic to whisper back, but her body did not cooperate.
The guard paused directly in front of their hiding place. The flashlight beam went from left to right until it landed on Galathea's blazer, which fell on the floor in their scramble.
"Another one for the lost and found," the guard muttered. As he bent to pick it up, the flashlight beam cut through the lattice, slicing light and shadow across Cael's face. His expression remained perfectly calm -- eyes fixed on Galathea's, as if the guard did not exist.
Galathea's throat went dry.
She could feel Cael's gaze as he breathed, steady and controlled. She could feel him deliberately pulling her waist against his body. Her breasts threatening to spill out of her tank top as they pressed against him.
The flashlight beam swept back and forth once again.
Cael's gaze bore into Galathea's eyes. Heat colored her ears and her cheeks as she felt Cael's hand on her waist pull her into his body once more. The fabric between them did nothing to hide the hardness that started to bulge below his belt.
The beam of light lingered near the lattice sculpture.
Galathea's pulse hammered. If they were caught like this --
Cael's fingers tightened slightly on her wrist, almost imperceptibly, and Galathea understood the unspoken command: not one sound.
She hated that she obeyed.
A few seconds later, the guard finally moved on, footsteps fading down the hall.
Galathea exhaled shakily, then immediately tried to pull away from Cael. "Are you insane?" her admonishing whisper was still cautious.
Cael didn't release her right away. His gaze held hers through the lattice shadows, unreadable.
"Wasn't that exciting?" His whispers were one of mocking.
Galathea glared. "No. That was unemployment."
Cael's thumb brushed her pulse -- barely a touch but deliberate,
Galathea's breath caught again. Cael noticed.
The air between them tightened like a rope.
Cael leaned closer, head tilting slightly, pulling at her waist again, smugness softened into something sharper and quieter. His eyes flicked to her lips then back to her eyes as if asking for permission he didn't need.
Hunger of a different kind pumped through Cael. The hunger that Galathea unmistakably recognized as it pressed hard against her lower abs, forcing through the fabric as if it can tear through.
At the sensation, Galathea's mouth parted before she could stop it. Her whole body screamed at her to either shove him away or close the last inch between their lips herself.
But she didn't get to choose.
The overhead lights snapped on all at once -- bright, clinical, merciless. The gallery flooded with artificial day, erasing every shadow that hid them.
A robotic voice crackled over the intercom. "Attention. Lighting schedule override detected."
Galathea froze. For a split second, Cael rested his forehead on hers with eyes closed.
Then, Cael's hands dropped from Galathea's waist and wrist like it had never been there.
They stood in full view of the gleaming exhibition hall, the sculpture no longer hiding anything but the fact that they had almost -- almost --
Galathea stared at Cael, pulse still racing.
Cael's expression smoothed instantly back into CEO control, as if the charged silence hadn't existed.
Internally, he scolded himself for setting up this prank to mess with Galathea.
The moment evaporated like mist under heat.
Whatever almost happened, disappeared with the shadows.