Clara Jennings adjusted the strap of her black satin dress, its smooth fabric clinging to her figure as she took in the grandeur of the room. The gala buzzed with the kind of energy that only came with prestige—the clink of champagne flutes, soft murmurs of admiration for the displayed artworks, and the faint strains of classical music. This was her night. A chance to impress Marcus Sinclair, the CEO of Sinclair Gallery, and secure the promotion she’d worked tirelessly for. Her breath quickened, anticipation fluttering in her chest like the art hanging on the walls—carefully crafted, ready to be unveiled.

The Sinclair Gallery was renowned for housing some of the finest contemporary art in the country, and tonight was its most exclusive event of the year. Patrons and critics mingled, their eyes flicking between the gallery’s prized pieces and one another, as if deciding who would be their next investment.