Chapter 4

The air in the private nook of the industrial loft was thick, heavy with the residual warmth of a hundred bodies and the lingering scent of expensive wine and spilled champagne. We had escaped the main gallery floor, leaving behind the polite murmurs of critics and the clinking of ice in glasses, retreating into a secluded corner where the shadows were longer and the silence was heavier. The space was a raw, exposed-brick alcove, jutting out from the main hall like a secret kept too long. To one side, a massive, floor-to-ceiling window looked out onto the city skyline, the glass fogged with condensation from the humidity of the crowd. To the other, stacks of unused crates and rolled-up velvet ropes created a makeshift wall, shielding us from the prying eyes of anyone who wandered too close to the perimeter. I was sitting on a high, wooden crate, my legs crossed loosely, feeling the rough wood bite slightly into my thighs through my silk dress. Scattered around the periphery of our little sanctuary were the remnants of an artist’s workspace, though this wasn’t an artist’s studio in the traditional sense. It was a hybrid space, a loft converted for events,