Chapter 2: Shadows in the Gallery
Eight o'clock Wednesday morning. Moonlight Gallery stood empty, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows onto pristine white walls. I turned my key in the lock, the sound echoing in a way it never had before. Usually Adrian's footsteps would already be pacing the hardwood, his voice on some call about market projections or investment portfolios.
But today? Nothing. Just me and the silence.
Seven years, and this is the first time I've opened the gallery alone.
I walked through the main exhibition space, my heels clicking against the floor. The walls displayed exactly what Adrian wanted—safe investments masquerading as art. A Hockney print here, a Koons sculpture there. All prestigious names, all guaranteed returns. Not a single piece that made your heart skip or your mind wander.
In the office, a yellow sticky note clung to my computer monitor. Adrian's handwriting, rushed and careless.
"Had to leave early for client meeting. Keys on desk. -A"
I stared at it, waiting for something more to materialize. Not even "Good morning" or "We need to talk about last night." Just logistics. Just business.
The leather chair creaked as I sank into it, and suddenly I was somewhere else entirely. Seven years ago, this same space, though it had been so different then. Cramped, chaotic, walls that needed paint and floors that needed refinishing. But God, the possibilities had been endless.
Adrian had walked in wearing a suit that cost more than my monthly rent, hired to appraise Mom's estate. I'd expected another vulture, someone who'd lowball me on her collection. Instead, he'd spent an hour studying her photographs, really looking at them.
"You have an eye for this, Celeste," he'd said, holding up a piece by an unknown photographer Mom had championed. "Most people see price tags. You see souls."
"I want to create a space where art speaks to people, not just collectors," I'd told him, half expecting him to laugh.
But he hadn't laughed. His eyes had lit up like I'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "Then let's build it together. Moonlight Gallery—because the best art reveals itself in subtle light."
When did 'together' become 'Adrian decides, Celeste executes'?
The shift hadn't happened overnight. Three years ago, maybe. That's when Evangeline first clicked her Louboutins across our threshold, Adrian trailing behind her like a puppy who'd found a new owner. She'd surveyed our carefully curated collection of emerging artists with barely concealed disdain.
"Evangeline thinks we're too focused on unknowns," Adrian had announced later that evening, as if her opinion was gospel. "We need established names."
"But supporting emerging artists was our original vision," I'd argued, still naive enough to think my voice carried weight.
He'd waved me off, already scrolling through auction catalogs on his tablet. "Vision doesn't pay the bills, Celeste. We need to be strategic."
Evangeline had smiled at me then, that condescending curve of lips that made me feel like a child playing dress-up. "Celeste, darling, passion is lovely, but the market demands sophistication."
The real breaking point had come two months ago. A young photographer from Echo Park had sent me her portfolio. Raw, visceral images of immigrant families in LA, each shot pulsing with life and struggle and hope. The kind of work that made you remember why art mattered.
"Her work speaks to our generation," I'd pleaded with Adrian that night, spreading the photographs across our dining table. "It's raw, honest, relevant."
"Relevant doesn't guarantee sales, Celeste." He hadn't even looked up from his phone.
Evangeline, who'd somehow become a fixture at our business dinners, had patted my hand like I was a slow child. "Perhaps Celeste needs more exposure to serious art criticism."
That was the moment I realized I'd become a stranger in my own gallery.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my email. Messages from artists we represented—or used to represent, before Adrian decided emerging talent was too risky. My fingers moved across the keyboard, typing carefully worded messages to each of them.
"There may be significant changes in gallery direction soon. I want you to know your art has always mattered here."
To the young photographer, I wrote something more personal: "Don't give up on your vision. Some of us are still fighting for authentic art."
If Adrian wants to turn this into a corporate showroom, he can do it without me.
I hit send on the last email and leaned back. "Mom, maybe it's time I remembered what you taught me about standing up for what I believe in."
The sound of a key in the front door made me look up. But it wasn't Adrian's familiar shuffle. These were heels, deliberate and sharp against the floor. Through the glass office door, I watched Evangeline stride into the gallery like she already owned it, her gaze sweeping over the walls with proprietary satisfaction.
I took a deep breath and grabbed my bag, stepping out of the office.
"Celeste!" Evangeline turned around, her smile perfect as always. "I was just wondering when you and Adrian might make that Adams piece available for long-term loan to me?"
"It's not available." My voice came out cold as ice.
"But Adrian said—"
"Adrian was wrong." I cut her off, my gaze steady and unblinking. "Some things aren't meant for just anyone to own."
I watched Evangeline for a moment as she stood there, clearly wanting to say more. Then I turned and walked toward the door. This level of opponent wasn't worth my time.
Evangeline's smile froze for just a second. She was about to speak when my phone rang. Adrian's name lit up the screen.
My phone lit up as I sat in the gallery parking lot, watching Evangeline's silver Maserati disappear down the street. Adrian's name on the screen. I stared at it for a second, thumb hovering over decline.
"Yeah?"
"Hey." He sounded beat. Maybe nervous. "So, um, my parents called. They're doing Sunday dinner again. Mom's been asking when we're gonna come by."
I watched this young couple walking past, hands linked, laughing about something. They looked so damn happy.
"Okay."
"You'll come?" The relief in his voice was obvious. "She's making that lobster thing you like. With the wine sauce."
Eleanor and Robert. God, they'd been nothing but good to me. Better than good, actually. Eleanor treated me like I was her own daughter, and Robert... he'd light up whenever I walked in, eager to show me whatever new piece he'd found.
Maybe they deserve a real goodbye.
"What time?"
"Six. And Celeste, about last night—"
"See you Sunday."