The guided tours were smaller groups, more intimate conversations about the art.
Ophelia led the first group herself, and Maxi—to her simultaneous delight and terror—joined it.
So did Amelia, of course, still attached to his arm like a particularly decorative barnacle.
Ophelia led them to the Nakamura installation first, falling into the familiar rhythm of sharing what she knew.
"Haruki Nakamura is one of the most innovative artists working with light today," she explained, gesturing to the play of shadows on the wall. "But what makes this piece special is that it's rooted in traditional Japanese calligraphy—shodo. The shadows aren't random. They actually spell out a poem by Matsuo Bashō."
"Which poem?" Maxi asked, his interest clearly genuine.
Ophelia's face lit up—someone actually cared about the details. "It's from his travel diary, Oku no Hosomichi—The Narrow Road to the Deep North. The specific verse translates roughly to 'The light of the moon / Shines on the snow—/ How clear, how cold.'"
"And the piece itself plays with that duality," Maxi said, studying the installation thoughtfully. "The light creates the shadows, but the shadows create meaning. Neither exists without the other."
"Exactly," Ophelia said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "You understand it. Most people see it as just a pretty pattern, but you got it immediately."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the rest of the group faded away. There was just Ophelia and Maxi, connected by a shared appreciation for something beautiful and meaningful.
"How fascinating," Amelia said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. "Though I have to say, darling, all this talk of shadows and meaning is giving me a headache. Perhaps we could look at something more... straightforward? I do prefer art that actually looks like something."
Several people in the group shifted uncomfortably. That was the kind of comment that marked you as culturally unsophisticated in these circles.
"Contemporary abstract work isn't for everyone," Ophelia said diplomatically, though her jaw had tightened. "If you'd prefer representational art, the Beaumont painting might be more to your taste. It's abstract in execution but representational in intent—"
"Oh, I'm sure it's all very clever," Amelia interrupted with a dismissive wave. "I just find that so much modern art is more about the artist showing off than creating anything actually beautiful. Don't you think, Maximilian?"
"No," Maxi said simply, and there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. "I think that's a reductive and rather shallow interpretation that says more about the viewer's lack of engagement than the artwork's merit."
Amelia's smile froze. "I didn't mean—"
"Shall we move on to the Sterling sculpture series?" Ophelia interjected quickly, trying to defuse the tension. "It's actually quite accessible—the forms are organic but abstracted, exploring the relationship between solid and void."
She led the group onward, very aware that Maxi had positioned himself slightly apart from Amelia now, creating distance. Very aware that he kept asking thoughtful questions that showed genuine understanding. Very aware that every time their eyes met, she felt that same spark of connection.
By the time the tour ended, Ophelia was flushed with success and something that might have been hope.
Maxi lingered as the group dispersed, his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful.
"I meant what I said earlier," he told her quietly. "About wanting to discuss potential collaborations. I think what you're doing here—making contemporary art accessible without dumbing it down—is important. Blackwood Syndicate has been looking for cultural partnerships, ways to position ourselves as patrons of emerging artists and innovative galleries."
"That sounds..." Ophelia searched for words, her professional brain trying to catch up with her racing heart, "that sounds like something we should definitely discuss. Perhaps over coffee? Or a meeting at your office? Or—" She was starting to babble and forced herself to stop.
"Coffee would be perfect," Maxi said, and his smile was warm, genuine. "When would work for you? I know gallery owners keep unusual hours—"
"Actually," Ophelia interrupted, then hesitated. Should she mention Saturday? But that might sound presumptuous, like she was expecting him to ask her out when he was just talking about business. "I have a... family obligation this Saturday afternoon. But any other day next week would work."
"A family obligation," Maxi repeated, and something flickered in his expression—disappointment? "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Ophelia assured him quickly. "Just... something my mother arranged. You know how mothers can be."
"I do indeed," Maxi said with feeling, and they shared a smile of mutual understanding. "Well, how about Monday then? There's a coffee shop near my office that's quiet enough for actual conversation."
"Monday would be perfect," Ophelia said, trying not to sound too eager and probably failing.
"Excellent." Maxi pulled out his phone. "If I could get your number? I'll text you the details—time and location."
They exchanged numbers, and Ophelia tried very hard not to read too much into the fact that Maximilian Blackwood now had her personal phone number and would be texting her.
It's just business, she told herself firmly.
Professional collaboration. Nothing more.
But the way he was looking at her suggested it might be something more. Or maybe she was just projecting her hopes onto him. It was so hard to tell.
"Maximilian!" Amelia's voice cut through the moment, sharp with impatience. "Are you coming? I've been waiting by the door for ages."
Maxi's expression shifted to something resigned. "I should go. She drove me here, and I'd rather not deal with the passive-aggressive guilt trip of making her wait any longer."
"Of course," Ophelia said, trying to hide her disappointment. "Thank you for coming tonight. And for... for understanding the art. It means a lot when someone actually sees what the artist intended."
"The pleasure was entirely mine," Maxi said, holding her gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "I look forward to Monday, Ophelia. And to many more conversations about art and galleries and the importance of making culture accessible."
He walked away before she could respond, rejoining Amelia who immediately latched onto his arm and steered him toward the exit, talking loudly about how exhausted she was from all the "intellectual stimulation."
Ophelia stood there, her hand pressed to her chest, feeling her heart race.
He wants to see me again. For coffee. To talk about collaborations. And he looked at me like... like I mattered. Like what I said was important.
"Lia?" Kalina's voice broke through her reverie. "Are you okay? You look dazed."
"Maxi asked for my number," Ophelia said faintly. "We're having coffee Monday. To discuss partnerships. Business partnerships. Professional collaboration."
"Mmhmm," Kalina said, her tone suggesting she wasn't fooled by the emphasis on 'professional' and 'business.' "And how did he look at you when he asked?"
"Like... like he actually wanted to," Ophelia admitted. "Not just being polite. Actually interested."
"Good," Kalina said with satisfaction. "That's exactly what we were hoping for."
"What about Saturday?" Ophelia asked quietly. "The blind date Mother set up? Do you think he knows?"
Kalina shook her head. "Probably not. His mother likely hasn't told him yet—she'll want to pick the perfect moment, make a big announcement about it. You'll find out Saturday when you show up and he realizes it's you."
"What if he's disappointed?" Ophelia worried. "What if he wanted the coffee meeting because he likes me as a professional contact, but when he realizes his mother set us up, he feels trapped?"
"Lia," Kalina said gently, "that man looked at you like you hung the moon when you were explaining shadow patterns and Japanese calligraphy. He's not going to be disappointed. He's going to be delighted."
"You don't know that."
"I know people," Kalina said. "And I know that look. Trust me—Saturday is going to go exactly as planned."
Ophelia wanted to believe her. She did believe her, mostly. But a small part of her couldn't help worrying that this was all too good to be true, that something would go wrong, that Maxi would realize she wasn't as special as he seemed to think she was.
But for now, she had his number in her phone and a coffee date on Monday and a successful gallery event that people were still praising as they left.
For now, that was enough.
"Now," Kalina said, linking her arm through Ophelia's, "you have more tours to give. People are asking for you specifically. Go be brilliant some more."
The rest of the evening passed in that same blur of conversations, tours, and compliments. The wine spill had been cleaned up without staining anything important. The lights had stabilized after the electrician's adjustments. Even Mireille's appetizer disaster had become a funny anecdote rather than a humiliation—Logan had helped her laugh about it, and she'd managed to avoid further catastrophes for the rest of the night.
By ten PM, guests were starting to leave, expressing their thanks and their appreciation for the exhibition.
"Wonderful event, Ms. Levesque," Eleanor Pemberton said as she departed. "I'll be in touch about acquiring one of the pieces for my collection."
"You have a real eye," Vivienne Laurent said grudgingly. "I'll be writing about this exhibition in next month's column. Expect it to be positive."
Antonio Rossi kissed both of Ophelia's cheeks and invited her to visit his studio in Florence anytime. Sarah Yamamoto exchanged business cards and mentioned a possible exhibition exchange between their institutions.
It was, by any measure, a tremendous success.
Silas Ashworth left early, pausing only to offer Kalina a polite goodbye that she barely registered, too busy coordinating the cleanup efforts. He walked away with his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully neutral, carrying the weight of his unspoken feelings like stones in his chest.
Rhys Castillon left without saying goodbye to anyone, Tristan trailing dutifully behind him. But before he reached the door, he turned back once, his eyes finding Kalina across the room. She was laughing at something Logan had said, her whole face lit up, completely unaware of being watched.
Rhys turned away and left, his jaw tight, his mind on terraces and railings and the terrible, specific fear of watching someone fall.
By eleven PM, the gallery was empty except for Ophelia, Kalina, Mireille, Logan, and Julia with her cleanup crew.
Ophelia sank into one of the chairs that had been set up for the event, her shoes already kicked off, her feet aching but her heart full.
"We did it," she said wonderingly. "It actually worked. Everything went... it went perfectly."
"It went chaotically," Kalina corrected, settling into the chair beside her. "But yes, ultimately, it worked."
"The sculpture almost fell, the lights flickered, Mireille became a health hazard to herself and others, and I nearly got yanked off a balcony by a man with PTSD," Kalina ticked off on her fingers. "But the art was appreciated, the connections were made, and you were absolutely brilliant. So yes. Perfect in its own way."
"You nearly got yanked off a balcony?" Ophelia asked, alarmed.
"Long story. Rhys Castillon has issues. We're not unpacking them tonight."
Mireille collapsed into another chair with a dramatic groan. "I made such a fool of myself. Multiple times. In front of the same man. This is my life now. Professional embarrassment."
"He helped you up," Logan pointed out, settling onto the floor since all the chairs were taken. "That's something."
"He helped me up with the enthusiasm of someone picking up litter," Mireille countered. "Polite but clearly wishing the litter would stop existing in his vicinity."
"Give it time," Kalina suggested. "He's clearly got walls up. You just need to be patient."
"I don't want to be patient," Mireille complained. "I want to be charming and irresistible and have him fall madly in love with me immediately."
"That's not how life works," Logan said, not unkindly.
"It should be," Mireille muttered.
Julia approached with her clipboard, looking tired but satisfied. "Ms. Ophelia, the cleanup is progressing well. We should be done within the hour. The sculptures are all secure, the artwork is undamaged, and I've already had three requests for private viewings next week."
"Three requests," Ophelia repeated, still processing. "From tonight?"
"From tonight," Julia confirmed. "This event was a success by every metric. You should be very proud."
After Julia left to continue coordinating cleanup, the four friends sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the reality of what they'd accomplished settling over them.
"Maxi wants to have coffee with me," Ophelia said softly. "Monday. To discuss collaborations. He asked for my number."
"Of course he did," Kalina said simply. "You're wonderful. He'd be an idiot not to want to spend time with you."
"But it's just business," Ophelia said, trying to convince herself as much as her friends. "Professional collaboration. Nothing more."
"Keep telling yourself that," Mireille said with a knowing smile. "Maybe by Monday you'll actually believe it."
"What about Saturday?" Ophelia asked. "When he shows up for the blind date and realizes it's me?"
"He'll be pleasantly surprised," Kalina said confidently. "Trust me, Lia. This is going to work out exactly as we planned."
Ophelia took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. Okay, I trust you."
"Good," Kalina said, standing and stretching. "Now come on. Let's go home. Or to Logan's. Wherever we're sleeping tonight. I'm exhausted, and tomorrow we all have things to deal with."
"More meetings?" Ophelia asked wearily.
"For me and Logan, yes. Proposal presentations, merger discussions, all that boring business stuff. For you, probably media requests and follow-up conversations with tonight's attendees. For Mireille, presumably more stalking of Tristan Mercier's nonexistent social media presence."
"I'm not stalking," Mireille protested. "I'm researching."
"Sure you are," Kalina said with a knowing smile. "Come on. Let's go."
They gathered their things, said goodbye to Julia and the cleanup crew, and headed out into the cool night air.
The gallery event was over.