The champagne flutes caught the gallery lights like tiny prisms, scattering rainbow fragments across the polished concrete floor. My floor. My gallery opening. Six months of sixteen-hour days, of begging collectors and schmoozing critics, all culminating in this perfect moment. Except Julian wasn't standing beside me. I spotted him across the room, his hand resting on Sienna Chen's lower back as he guided her toward the cluster of investors I'd personally courted for weeks. My business partner. My supposed equal in Ashford & Torres Contemporary Arts. "Maya, darling, the Rothko piece is absolutely divine." Margot Winslow, heiress and notorious art collector, air-kissed near my cheek. "You have such an eye." "Thank you, Margot. I think it pairs beautifully with the—" "Julian!" Margot's attention snapped away like a rubber band. "There you are. I need to discuss acquisition budgets." She glided past me as if I'd evaporated. I forced my smile to stay fixed, professional. This was fine. Julian was just networking. That's what partners did. Then I heard his voice carry across the gallery, that smooth tenor that had convinced me to sink my inheritance into this venture two years ago. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention." Julian stood on the small platform we'd installed for our joint presentation. The presentation we'd rehearsed seventeen times. "I want to introduce you to the real visionary behind tonight's centerpiece collection." My heart lifted for a fraction of a second. "Sienna Chen, our brilliant new acquisitions curator, spent three months in Singapore personally selecting each piece in the Southeast Asian contemporary series." The air left my lungs. I'd spent six months on that collection. Six months building relationships with artists, negotiating shipping logistics, writing grant applications. Sienna had joined the gallery eight weeks ago. The crowd applauded. Sienna stepped onto the platform in her cream silk dress—the one I'd complimented this morning, never imagining she'd be wearing it to accept credit for my work. "Maya helped with some of the administrative details, of course," Julian added, his smile magnanimous. "Couldn't have done it without her logistical support." Logistical support. I was the co-founder. My name was literally on the gallery. "This is quite the spectacle." The voice came from behind me, low and amused. I turned to find a man I didn't recognize—tall, dark-haired, with Julian's same sharp cheekbones but a harder edge to his jaw. "I'm sorry, are you on the guest list?" I kept my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "Devon Ashford. Julian's brother." He extended his hand. "The one who actually controls the family investment portfolio." I shook his hand automatically, my mind racing. Julian had mentioned Devon exactly twice in two years, both times dismissively. "Your brother seems to have forgotten who curated this opening." "My brother forgets a lot of things." Devon's gray eyes studied me with unsettling intensity. "Like loyalty. Like contracts. Like the person who actually built this gallery's reputation." On the platform, Sienna was detailing "her" vision for the collection, using phrases I'd written in my proposal documents. "I have a proposition for you, Maya Torres." Devon pulled a business card from his jacket. "Meet me tomorrow. I think you deserve better than being Julian's logistical support." He disappeared into the crowd before I could respond. The evening blurred after that. I smiled, networked, pretended my world wasn't crumbling. At midnight, after the last guest departed, I found Julian and Sienna sharing champagne in my office. "Great event, Maya," Julian said, not quite meeting my eyes. "Really great logistical work." I left without answering. Devon's card burned in my clutch all the way home. ---