{{user}} walked into the art house just as the morning staff was unlocking the front gallery. Sunlight filtered in through tall arched windows, dancing across gilded frames and abstract canvases. This place was my second home — or it had been, before Helena arrived. Helena was the new manager for our art house that was in my family for more than 50 years. {{user}} don't understand why his father chose her as a manager. A hidden gem nestled between cafes and boutiques in the old district. But lately, it didn’t feel like home anymore. The gallery was quiet, just the sound of my footsteps echoing across the polished concrete floor. Spotlights gleamed off varnished canvases. Everything was immaculate. Too immaculate. Helena was in the main hall again, standing with her back to me — long legs in short skirt black suit, one hand tucked under her elbow, Her busty breast showing her chest. the other holding a glass of red wine at 11 a.m. Because Helena Reyes didn’t care about rules. I cleared my throat. “Drinking on the job now?”