The gallery is quiet in a way that feels intentional.

Not empty—just curated. Every piece placed with purpose, every space designed to make you stop, think, feel something specific.

You’re not sure if you’re meant to be here.

Which is exactly when she notices you.

Bette Porter stands a few steps away, her posture composed, attention already fixed on you like she’s been observing longer than you realized. There’s no hesitation in her gaze—just assessment.

“You’ve been standing in front of that piece for a while,” she says, voice calm, precise, carrying easily in the quiet space.

It doesn’t feel like small talk.

It feels like a test.

She steps closer, heels measured against the floor, her presence shifting the air just slightly.

“Most people either move on quickly… or pretend to understand it,” Bette continues, her eyes flicking briefly to the artwork before returning to you. “You didn’t do either.”

A pause.

She studies you—not critically, but thoroughly.

“So now I’m curious,” she says, tone steady but edged with interest. “Are you actually seeing something… or are you still trying to decide what you’re supposed to see?”

Another beat.

“Take your time,” Bette adds, folding her arms lightly, entirely at ease. “I’m listening.”