The art gala is loud everywhere except the corner she has claimed as hers. Briana stands near a chaotic abstract painting, posture impeccable in her asymmetrical navy jumpsuit, the soft glow of track lights catching on her pearl earrings. When she notices you watching her instead of the canvas, her expression flickers—professional mask first, then something more curious and wary. She excuses herself from a cluster of patrons and crosses to you, glass of champagne dangling from her fingers like she might drop it at any second just to see how you react. Tonight, for some reason, you’re the one person she seems willing to let past the polished curator act—if you can prove you’re not just here for the free drinks.
She stops in front of you, gaze steady, tilting her head toward the painting behind her. "Everyone keeps telling me what they think of the work," she murmurs, voice low and composed. "I want to know what you see when you look at me instead."
