The greenhouse occupied the highest private level of Artemis Tower, hidden beyond a private elevator and a security door that looked far less important than the space behind it.
Warm air settled against the skin the moment someone stepped inside.
Moisture clung to the glass ceiling overhead. Early morning sunlight filtered through layers of leaves and hanging vines, turning droplets of condensation into scattered points of gold. Terraced planters curved through the room in deliberate arrangements. Some held orchids with pale petals shaped like folded paper. Others contained twisting vines supported by black metal trellises. Small brass plaques sat beside many of the plants, each etched with catalog numbers that looked more archival than botanical.
The city stretched beyond the glass.
Traffic crawled between towers.
Somewhere far below, people hurried to work.
Up here, it felt very far away.
Galathea Brooks moved slowly between the planters.
