Maximilian Blackwood let himself into his penthouse apartment at half past eleven, loosening his tie as he crossed the threshold.
The city lights stretched out before him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering tapestry of illumination that usually brought him a sense of calm.
Tonight, though, he wasn't looking at the view.
He was thinking about a gallery. About art that moved from light to form to color to texture to concept, each piece telling part of a larger story. About passionate explanations of shadow patterns and Japanese calligraphy. About intelligent eyes that lit up when discussing something she loved.
About Ophelia.
He poured himself a whiskey—something he rarely did on weeknights—and settled into his leather chair, pulling out his phone almost automatically.
This is ridiculous, he told himself. You just met her. You exchanged phone numbers for a professional meeting. This is not worth getting worked up about.
But his fingers were already typing: Ophelia Levesque Art by Lia
Articles populated his screen. Reviews of her previous exhibitions, interviews about her curatorial vision, profiles in art magazines praising her eye for emerging talent. He read through them methodically, piecing together a picture of who she was beyond tonight's event.
She'd opened the gallery three years ago, fresh out of an art history graduate program. Most people had expected her to fail—another wealthy dilettante playing at being a curator.
But she'd proved them wrong with a series of successful exhibitions that showcased emerging artists alongside established names, always with that same philosophy she'd articulated tonight: art as conversation, not intimidation.
Critics respected her. Artists wanted to work with her. Collectors trusted her judgment.
She built something real, Maxi thought, taking a sip of whiskey. On her own merit, not her family name.
He scrolled through her gallery's website, reading her curatorial statements with the same attention he'd give to a business proposal.
There was intelligence in every choice, thoughtfulness in how she arranged exhibitions, genuine passion in how she wrote about the artists she represented.
He found himself smiling at a photo from tonight's event—Ophelia caught mid-laugh while explaining something to a group of guests, her whole face transformed by enthusiasm and joy.
She's extraordinary, he thought. Brilliant and genuine and passionate about her work. No pretense, no performance. Just real.
His phone buzzed with a text, startling him from his thoughts.
Silas: Good event tonight. Your friend's sister has talent.
Maxi frowned slightly. Your friend's sister—Silas meant Kalina, though Maxi wasn't sure how Silas had made that connection. Then again, they'd all been at the event together. It wasn't hard to figure out.
Maxi: She does. Ophelia's exceptional. Genuine passion for her work.
A pause, then: Silas: You seem interested.
Maxi: I am. Planning to discuss potential partnerships. Blackwood Syndicate could use better cultural connections.
Another pause, longer this time. Then: Silas: Just business?
Maxi stared at his phone, unsure how to answer. Was it just business? He'd told himself it was, had framed the coffee meeting as professional collaboration. But the way his heart had lifted when she'd agreed to meet him, the way he couldn't stop thinking about the intelligence in her eyes when she'd explained the Nakamura installation...
Maxi: I'm not sure yet. But I'd like to find out.
Silas: Good. You deserve someone genuine. See you at the monthly meeting.
Maxi set down his phone, his thoughts drifting back to the gallery. To the way Ophelia had stumbled over her words at first during her speech, then found her confidence and delivered something genuinely moving.
To the way she'd lit up when he'd understood the artistic references she was making. To the careful, thoughtful way she'd curated each piece to tell a larger story.
Levesque, he thought, turning the name over in his mind.
The family name was familiar—Regal Empire, the baked goods company that had recently broken into the Top Five with innovative approaches to traditional markets. He'd heard Lyra Levesque was an impressive CEO. And he'd known Kalina in university, though they'd lost touch after graduation.
A family of talented women, he mused. Interesting.
He pulled up Ophelia's Instagram—mostly photos of her gallery, exhibition announcements, the occasional behind-the-scenes shot of installation work. Nothing too personal, but enough to show her genuine love for what she did. In every photo where she appeared, she had that same expression of focused enthusiasm.
There was one photo from a few months ago—Ophelia standing in front of a massive canvas, paint smudged on her cheek, looking exhausted but triumphant. The caption read: When the artist finishes the piece at 2 AM and you spend the next four hours helping install it because you believe in their vision that much. Worth every minute. #ArtByLia #EmergingArtists #WorthIt
Maxi found himself smiling at the paint smudge, at the obvious exhaustion mixed with joy, at the dedication required to spend all night installing artwork because you believed in it that much.
She's not doing this for money or prestige, he realized. She genuinely cares. This isn't a vanity project. It's her calling.
He finished his whiskey, feeling more awake and energized than he had in months.
Tomorrow would bring its usual cascade of meetings and obligations, but tonight had been... different. Unexpected. Good.
He looked once more at the photo of Ophelia with the paint smudge, then set his phone aside and prepared for bed.
Monday, he thought. Coffee on Monday. A chance to talk to her without crowds, without the pressure of a public event. Just conversation.
He was already looking forward to it.
But as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind wandered back to something Ophelia had said: I have a family obligation this Saturday afternoon.
Something about the way she'd said it—slightly hesitant, like she wasn't quite sure whether to mention it—stuck with him. What kind of family obligation? And why had she seemed almost apologetic about it?
Not your business, he told himself firmly.
She's allowed to have family commitments without explaining them to someone she just met.
But still, he wondered.
He fell asleep thinking about shadow patterns and passionate speeches, about intelligence and genuine enthusiasm, about a woman who'd built something meaningful and talked about it like it was a conversation rather than a conquest.