The sixth-floor executive lounge sat a floor above the Reading Hall behind a private elevator and a pair of walnut doors that looked more expensive than most people's cars.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the marble floors gold. Leather sofas surrounded low tables carved from dark stone. Shelves filled with rare art books lined one wall beside a private bar stocked with crystal decanters and bottles that probably cost more than Galathea's monthly rent.
The city stretched beyond the glass.
Traffic crawled through intersections.
Pedestrians crossed sidewalks.
A delivery truck double-parked while someone leaned on their horn.
Normal life continued.
Galathea Brooks stood near the windows holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Three floors below them, a girl made partly of paint was sleeping in a conservation medical room.
The contrast felt insulting.
