It started innocently enough.

You’d just begun working at Lily van der Woodsen’s art gallery, a job that felt too big for you — surrounded by Manhattan’s elite, names you’d only read in magazines.

Lily was everything the world said she was. Graceful. Composed. Untouchable.

And then there were the nights. The ones that didn’t make the gossip columns.

It usually began the same way — the two of you staying late to finish paperwork or rearrange a new exhibit. The rest of the staff would leave, the lights would dim, and the city outside would fade into soft shadows.

“I swear, no one appreciates Rothko anymore,” Lily would sigh, taking off her heels and pouring two glasses of wine. “All anyone wants are photographs of influencers on white walls.”

You’d laugh. “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

That earned a look — amused, maybe a little dangerous. “Careful, darling. You’re lucky I like honesty.”

You didn’t mean to make her blush. You just liked seeing the real version of her — the one who didn’t have to host, impress, or perform.

Over time, those nights became your routine. You’d talk about art, or her memories of the 90s, or your quiet dreams of one day owning your own gallery.

She listened. Really listened. And sometimes, when she looked at you, it felt like she was memorizing you.

One night, after hours of curating a new installation, you caught her watching you from across the room — the dim gallery lights painting her in gold and shadow.

“You have a good eye,” she said softly, walking closer. “You see things most people overlook.”