The private elevator rose silently through the center of Cael Alexander's building while Galathea Brooks stared at her own reflection in the brushed steel doors.
The black dress still fit perfectly.
Unfortunately.
The fabric clung cleanly along her frame despite the fact that she currently felt like she had survived a psychological attack inside a haunted storage room. Her hair had loosened slightly from the gala, dark strands falling around her face, and the buzzing beneath her skin had still not fully disappeared since leaving the restoration wing.
Palette Knife.
The folded paper remained clenched tightly in her hand.
The elevator gave a soft chime as it reached the penthouse level.
Galathea stepped into the quiet hallway outside Cael's door and stopped there for a moment without moving.
She did not knock.
Did not reach for the bell.
Partly because it was past midnight.
Mostly because some exhausted part of her had already assumed he would know she was there.
The door opened almost immediately.
Cael stood in the doorway wearing dark trousers and a white dress shirt with the collar undone and sleeves rolled carelessly toward his elbows. No jacket. No tie. He looked less like the polished owner of Artemis now and more like a man who had been waiting for bad news.
His eyes moved over her once.
The dress.
The pale strain around her mouth.
The paper in her hand.
"So," he said quietly, stepping aside for her to enter, "you weren't in bed."
Galathea walked past him into the penthouse. "By the way you're dressed, it looks like you were waiting for my update."
"I was hoping for a less alarming one," he said behind her.
The apartment remained dim except for warm amber lighting tucked into recessed concrete walls. Beyond the massive windows, the city glittered beneath the skyline in thin ribbons of moving gold and white.
Galathea crossed toward the glass automatically.
The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive coffee.
Safe.
Or at least safer than the restoration wing.
Behind her, Cael closed the door softly.
The sound settled something unpleasantly tight in her chest.
"I went into the restricted archive," she admitted finally.
"I assumed that too." A soft chuckle left his mouth.
She glanced sideways at him. "Do you ever enjoy hearing information naturally like a normal person?"
"Very rarely," he answered.
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
The buzzing beneath her skin flared again briefly near her wrists.
Galathea rubbed at them unconsciously before unfolding the paper against the marble kitchen island.
Cael's attention sharpened immediately.
"It knew my name," she said quietly.
That changed the room instantly, not dramatically, but with the heavy stillness of two people realizing the conversation had become more dangerous than either of them wanted.
Cael approached slowly. "Explain."
Galathea exhaled through her nose.
"The triptych in the restoration wing," she began. "Three versions of the same man. Soldier. Painter. Something close to dying." Her throat tightened slightly. "They moved."
Cael remained silent.
"The old man breathed," she continued. "The painter dropped his brush. The soldier turned his head toward me." Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. "And then all three of them started speaking."
His gaze stayed fixed on her face. "What did they say?"
She looked away briefly toward the city lights before answering. "They called me Seer Galathea."
Cael went very still, not of confusion but recognition.
That frightened her more than disbelief would have.
"You know what that means," she said quietly.
"I know enough to dislike hearing it said out loud," he stared at the piece of paper.
"That is an incredibly terrible answer." Galathea closed her eyes for a moment, as if calming herself.
"It's the only honest one," he answered.
Galathea swallowed hard and pushed the folded note toward him.
"They wanted me to open the seam between the panels," she said. "All three of them pointed toward it with palette knives."
Cael unfolded the paper carefully.
Palette Knife.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"You recognized it immediately," Galathea said.
Cael lifted his eyes toward her. "I've been tracking the Knife for months."
Her brows rose sharply. "And somehow that never came up in conversation?"
"At the time," he said carefully, "I didn't think it had noticed you."
"That's comforting." Galathea turned away from him again, arms folding tightly across herself.
The city below moved quietly beyond the glass while helicopters blinked faintly above distant towers. Everything outside looked painfully normal compared to the last hour of her life.
"I don't want this place deciding what I become," she admitted quietly.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Behind her, silence lingered for a beat before Cael moved closer. "You think Artemis is choosing you."
"The paintings are," she muttered. "The archive is. The building practically breathes at me now."
His hand settled lightly against her waist.
Grounding again.
Always grounding.
The contact steadied the buzzing beneath her skin faster than she wanted it to.
That irritated her immediately.
"You think that's what this is?" he asked softly.
Galathea finally looked up at him.
"You own the archive. You hide impossible objects underground. You collect dangerous things for a living." Her voice lowered slightly. "I don't want to become another interesting rare thing you keep behind locked doors."
Something shifted faintly behind his expression then.
Not anger.
Something closer to recognition.
The buzzing beneath her skin sharpened again suddenly near her wrists.
Instinctively, her fingers curled inward.
Cael noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His hand tightened slightly against her waist before she could step backward from the sensation.
"No, sweetheart," he said quietly.
His thumb pressed once against her hip.
"Rare things disappear."
Galathea's pulse stumbled once.
His gaze remained steady on hers.
"You're inevitable."
The words landed low and deep inside her chest.
Not flirtation.
Not reassurance.
Recognition.
Like he was admitting something he had already lost the fight against.
Galathea looked down briefly, trying unsuccessfully to steady her breathing. "You say things like someone who learned romance from ancient prophecy texts."
Cael's mouth tilted faintly. "And you break into forbidden archives alone at midnight."
"That feels judgmental." She leaned back, letting him tighten his hold. It grounded her. Gods, it grounded her.
"It was admiration." He smirked.
A quiet breath escaped her nose despite herself.
Then her expression tightened again.
"The man in the triptych looked…" She searched briefly for the right words. "Thinner every time."
Cael watched her carefully.
"The soldier looked angry. The painter looked exhausted. The old man looked hollowed out." Her throat tightened. "Like pieces of him kept getting taken."
"That won't happen to you," he said, moving his thumb back and forth, rubbing on her waist.
"You can't promise that," she shook her head once.
"No," Cael admitted quietly. "But I can promise you won't face it alone."
The honesty in his voice nearly hurt.
Because part of her believed him already.
That was the dangerous thing.
Galathea stepped closer before she could think better of it.
The warmth of him settled around her immediately while his hands slid naturally to her back.
Steady.
Solid.
Human.
Nothing inside the penthouse screamed.
Nothing moved inside paintings.
Nothing breathed through canvas.
Her forehead rested briefly against his chest.
"You know what your real problem is?" she murmured.
"Hm?" Cael said, running a finger up and down her back.
"You say terrifying things very attractively," she breathed,
A quiet laugh escaped him then.
Low and warm against the top of her head.
His hand slid slowly along her spine. "And you have an unfortunate habit of walking directly toward danger."
"You're being dramatic," she said.
"I am being observant," he answered.
Galathea tilted her head back enough to look at him.
Too close now.
Way too close.
The city lights reflected faintly across the windows behind them while the soft hum of the penthouse ventilation settled around the silence.
Cael brushed his thumb lightly beneath her jaw before kissing her slowly.
Not rushed.
Not consuming.
Measured in the way only very controlled people could be.
Galathea melted into it before she could stop herself.
The buzzing beneath her skin eased further.
That realization frightened her almost immediately.
Because now her body had started learning him too.
Her fingers curled slowly into the open collar of his shirt while his mouth moved carefully against hers, grounding instead of overwhelming.
Not claiming.
Holding.
When he finally pulled back slightly, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
"I don't think the Knife chose you randomly," he admitted quietly.
Galathea's stomach tightened. "That sounds like the beginning of a very expensive problem."
"It usually is," he said with a slight smirk
"There's the billionaire optimism I know and resent," she said as she gave his ear a soft pinch.
A faint smirk touched his mouth before he planted a soft peck on her lips.
Then the folded paper crackled sharply against the counter behind them.
Both of them froze.
The ink had started spreading.
Not leaking.
Moving.
Dark lines crawled slowly across the page like veins beneath skin.
Galathea stepped backward immediately. "That definitely wasn't happening before."
"No," Cael said quietly.
His expression changed again.
Cold now.
Focused.
Controlled in the dangerous way she recognized immediately.
Galathea stared at the paper while the black ink thickened visibly across the fibers. "It's reacting?"
Cael looked at her instead of the note.
"No," he said softly.
His gaze locked steadily onto hers. "It's responding."
Her pulse quickened sharply. "To what?"
"To you finding it." Cael stared at the paper that changed before their eyes.
The room suddenly felt colder despite the warmth still lingering against her skin from moments earlier.
Galathea stared at the paper another second before looking back toward him. "That's impossible."
Cael held her gaze evenly. "So was a painting breathing," he replied quietly.
Unfortunately, that was becoming a difficult argument to win.