Chapter 33. Truth, At Last

The atrium felt alive, even in its industrial bones. Once an engine room of clanking machinery and soot-dark walls, it had been reborn: soft amber lights pooled on restored brick, tall arched windows framed the twilight sky, and the faint scent of linseed oil mingled with lingering dust. A low hum of conversation wove around the art—canvases pressed against brick, sculptures balanced on unfinished concrete—while a subtle playlist of cello and percussion drifted overhead.

Curators in tailored jackets drifted past journalists with notebooks balanced on one hip; philanthropists in sleek dresses sipped red wine beside young artists in scuffed sneakers and secondhand coats, their hair still streaked with paint. They moved in slow, admiring waves, eyes bright with curiosity. The contrast had been intentional. This wasn’t meant to be exclusive. It was meant to be real. Alyssa had insisted on it.

In just a few months, the art fund had taken shape—part of it sprung from Alyssa’s