The Billionaire's Secret Curator

corner was out of my usual, and the caffeine in the watered-down substi

ress harder on the gas. My life as an art curator isn't supposed to

ce tucked between two luxury boutiques. I've worked her

hit hard. Instead, I spend most of my days cataloging minor pieces, organizing exhibitions that barely break ev

nkins, is already at his desk, eyes glued to his computer screen. I drop my bag by my desk a

lls without looking up. "Got th

ht. The proposal.

much as I should be. Between managing the gallery's declining finances and trying to salvage what little r

The gallery is struggling. I'm struggling. There's no big break coming, no mysterious patron waiting

hing ev

s wandering through the exhibit space. I lean against my desk, massaging my temples. The budget

e need. Every exhibit feels like a compromise-never enough money, never enough time, never the pieces I dream of sho

esk, and I glance at the

n swipe to answ

I can hear the underlying concern. She kno

chaos." I force a smile, ev

ink about something else. You've been with that ga

ore. "I know, but it's not that simple.

t giving up, sweetheart. Som

he work, even when it's hard. But love doesn't pay the bill

are at the crumbling foundation of my career, wondering if I've been lying to m

fifteen minutes, but my motivation is already drained. I

bella, we've got another vendor coming in this afte

a small exhibition on modern ceramics, and the vendor will likely be trying to sell us more overpriced pieces

mind keeps cycling through the same questi

es that told stories of long-forgotten cultures. Instead, I'

he city bustling around me as if mocking my stillness. Another

--

old wooden floorboards under my tired feet. I drop my keys on the counter and kick off my shoes, feel

how far I am from the life I dreamed of. The art world isn't what I thought it would be. I envisioned prestige, creat

lan, a solution, all I see are dead ends. More exhibits, more outreach, more promotions-none of it feels like enough to save the ga

ining. But the thought of walking away from art, from everything I've worked for, twists

hibit. An exhibition we'll struggle to sell. My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to reply, but some

is hope that tomorrow