Across the gallery, Mireille had positioned herself near a sculpture that gave her a clear line of sight to where Tristan stood beside Rhys Castillon.
She was pretending to study the piece—a twisted metal form that supposedly represented "the fracturing of modern identity" or something equally pretentious—while actually watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye.
He stood with perfect posture, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression professionally blank as Rhys spoke quietly with a business associate. Tristan wasn't participating in the conversation, but he was clearly attentive, ready to provide whatever assistance his employer might need.
He's even more attractive than I remembered, Mireille thought despairingly. This is so unfair. How is anyone supposed to function around someone who looks like that?
She took a sip of her champagne, trying to look casual and sophisticated, and nearly choked on it when Tristan's eyes suddenly shifted and landed directly on her.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Mireille's mind went completely blank. She should say something. Do something. Anything.
Instead, she smiled—probably too brightly—and gave a little wave.
Tristan's expression didn't change. He gave the smallest, most minimal nod of acknowledgment, the kind you'd give to a stranger you vaguely recognized, and then his attention returned to Rhys.
Oh god, Mireille thought, her face heating. That was humiliating. Why did I wave? Who waves at an attractive man at a formal gallery event? What am I, twelve?
She turned back to the sculpture, staring at it with such intense focus that she could probably describe every weld mark, every curve of metal. Maybe if she stared hard enough, she could will herself to disappear into the artwork entirely.
"That's quite a piece," Logan's voice said beside her, and she nearly jumped.
"Don't sneak up on people," she hissed.
"I walked normally. You were just extraordinarily focused on pretending not to have just waved at your convenience store crush like a teenager."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't," Logan said mildly. "You're just embarrassed. It wasn't that bad."
"He didn't even smile! He barely acknowledged me! He probably thinks I'm an idiot."
"Or," Logan suggested, "he's working and maintaining professional boundaries because he's currently serving as personal assistant to one of the most powerful men in the city."
Mireille considered this. "That's... a generous interpretation."
"It's also probably accurate," Logan said. "Look, if you want to talk to him, actually talk to him. But maybe wait until he's not actively on duty? Approach him when he's getting a drink or looking at the art by himself."
"And say what? 'Hi, remember me, I'm the girl who accidentally bought condoms while stalking you'?"
"Maybe lead with something else," Logan suggested diplomatically.
Before Mireille could respond, there was movement near them. Rhys had finished his conversation and was moving through the gallery, Tristan following a respectful two steps behind. They were heading toward the Nakamura installation.
"Go," Logan urged. "The installation is huge. Lots of people will be looking at it. You can position yourself nearby naturally."
"You're a terrible influence," Mireille accused, but she was already moving.
The Nakamura installation dominated an entire wall—a massive piece that used carefully positioned lights and reflective surfaces to create shifting shadow patterns. It was mesmerizing, the kind of work that rewarded extended viewing.
Mireille positioned herself at one end of the installation, genuinely studying it now. From this angle, the shadows formed patterns that almost looked like calligraphy, though she couldn't read Japanese well enough to know if they actually were or if her brain was just finding patterns in randomness.
She was so absorbed that she didn't notice someone else approaching until a voice spoke beside her.
"It's based on shodo," the voice said—cool, professional, unmistakably Tristan's. "Japanese calligraphy. The shadows spell out a poem by Matsuo Bashō."
Mireille's heart stopped, then started again at double speed. She turned to find Tristan standing approximately three feet away, his eyes on the installation rather than on her.
"I... I didn't know that," she managed. "Do you read Japanese?"
"Enough to recognize the characters," he said. "My employer has business interests in Japan. It's useful to have basic literacy."
There was a pause. Mireille scrambled for something intelligent to say.
"We've met before," she blurted out. "At the convenience store? A few weeks ago?"
Tristan's gaze shifted to her for the first time, his expression still perfectly neutral. "I remember."
"You do?" Mireille couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.
"You were asking about the time," Tristan said. "You seemed... flustered."
Flustered. That's one way to describe my humiliating attempt at flirting while accidentally buying condoms.
"I was having a strange day," Mireille said, aiming for casual and probably missing. "I'm Mireille, by the way. Mireille Bellerose."
"Tristan Mercier," he said, and it was such a formal introduction, so carefully distant, that Mireille felt her hope deflating.
"You work for Rhys Castillon," she said, because stating the obvious was apparently all her brain could manage.
"I do."
Another pause. Mireille desperately searched for something to continue the conversation, but Tristan wasn't giving her anything to work with. His expression remained professionally pleasant but completely impersonal, like he was humoring a persistent stranger.
"Do you enjoy working for him?" she tried.
"Mr. Castillon is an excellent employer," Tristan said, which wasn't really an answer.
"And do you... come to many gallery events?"
"When Mr. Castillon's schedule requires it."
It was like trying to have a conversation with a very polite wall. Mireille felt her confidence crumbling with each monosyllabic response.
"Well," she said finally, accepting defeat, "it was nice seeing you again. I should—I should probably circulate. Lots of people to talk to. Gallery events. You know how it is."
She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. She couldn't seem to stop.
"Of course," Tristan said, and stepped back slightly, creating more distance between them. "Enjoy your evening, Ms. Bellerose."
The formality of it—Ms. Bellerose—felt like a door closing.
Mireille managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace and fled toward the bar, cursing herself internally with every step.
He's not interested, she thought miserably.
He couldn't have made it more clear if he'd literally held up a sign saying 'Please leave me alone.' Why am I like this? Why do I have to develop feelings for men who would rather be literally anywhere else?
She grabbed a fresh champagne flute from the bar and downed half of it in one go, ignoring the bartender's slightly concerned look.
Behind her, unseen, Tristan watched her go, his carefully neutral expression finally showing a crack—a brief tightening around his eyes, a tension in his jaw that suggested perhaps the conversation had cost him more effort than it appeared.
But then Rhys called his name, and Tristan's mask snapped back into place, professional and distant as ever.
Kalina had been watching the various dramas unfold with the detached interest of someone who'd orchestrated this event knowing it would be complicated. Ophelia and Maxi doing their awkward dance around Amelia. Mireille's painful attempt to connect with Tristan. The way Silas kept gravitating toward wherever Kalina happened to be, always maintaining a respectful distance but always, somehow, in the same general area.
She didn't notice that last part, of course. She was too busy making sure everything ran smoothly.
She had just finished a conversation with Antonio Rossi about the Italian art scene when she noticed Rhys Castillon standing alone near the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking at the crowd with an expression of barely concealed tedium.
Someone should probably make him feel welcome, she thought. Even if he looks like he'd rather be having root canal surgery.
She approached with her practiced social smile, the one that was friendly but not too familiar.
"Mr. Castillon," she said pleasantly. "I hope you're enjoying the exhibition."
Rhys's eyes shifted to her, and for a moment, there was something in them—a flash of something she couldn't quite read—before his expression returned to polite neutrality.
"It's adequate," he said, which was possibly the most damning praise Kalina had ever heard.
"Adequate," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's high praise indeed."
"The art is competent," Rhys clarified, as if this explained everything. "The venue is suitable. The event is professionally executed."
"But boring," Kalina guessed.
"Tedious," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Ah, yes, of course," Kalina said dryly. "Boring is merely uninteresting. Tedious is actively unpleasant."
The corner of Rhys's mouth might have twitched. Might have. It was so brief she could have imagined it.
"You're not a fan of gallery events, I take it," Kalina observed.
"I'm not a fan of performative culture appreciation," Rhys said bluntly. "Half these people couldn't tell a Rembrandt from a paint-by-numbers, but they'll stand here drinking expensive champagne and pretending to have profound thoughts about shadow patterns."
It was harsh, cynical, and probably not wrong.
"And yet you came anyway," Kalina pointed out.
"Obligation," Rhys said shortly. "Business connections require social maintenance."
"How refreshingly honest," Kalina said, meaning it. Most people at these events would never admit they found them tedious. "Though I think you're being somewhat unfair. Some people here genuinely care about art."
"Some," Rhys agreed. "A small percentage."
"Including your friends," Kalina said, nodding toward where Maxi was studying the Beaumont painting with clear interest. "Maximilian looks genuinely engaged."
"Maxi has always been more generous in his assessments of people and events," Rhys said. "It's one of his weaknesses."
"You consider generosity a weakness?"
"I consider naivety a weakness. The two often overlap."
Kalina studied him thoughtfully. He was prickly, closed-off, clearly uncomfortable in this setting. But there was something underneath that interested her—a fierce intelligence, a refusal to perform expected pleasantries, a bone-deep exhaustion that suggested someone carrying more weight than was visible.
"Well," she said lightly, "I'll leave you to your tedium, then. Though if you change your mind and decide to actually look at the art rather than judge the people looking at it, I recommend the Nakamura installation. It's based on Japanese calligraphy—shodo—and the shadows actually spell out a Bashō poem."
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"How did you know that?"
She glanced back. "About the calligraphy? I helped curate the collection. It's my sister's gallery."
Something shifted in Rhys's expression—a reassessment, perhaps.
"You're Ophelia Levesque's sister," he said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"Kalina Levesque," she confirmed. "Middle child. Professional layabout and occasional art advisor."
"You don't present as either," Rhys observed.
"Oh?" Kalina's eyebrow arched. "And how do I present?"
But before he could answer, there was a commotion near the Nakamura installation—raised voices, a sharp crack, gasps from the nearby guests.
Kalina's head whipped around, her social mask dropping as real concern took over. "What—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She was already moving, crossing the gallery floor with quick, purposeful strides.
Rhys found himself following, though he couldn't have said why.