The Billionaire's Secret Curator

It's 7:30 in the morning, and I'm already behind. The coffee shop on the corner was out of my usual, and the caffeine in the watered-down substitute is barely enough to shake off the exhaustion clinging to my bones.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard of my old, beat-up car and press harder on the gas. My life as an art curator isn't supposed to be glamorous, but it wasn't supposed to be this exhausting either.

I pull into the parking lot of the gallery-a modest space tucked between two luxury boutiques. I've worked here for five years, scraping by, hoping for my big break.

In art school, I had dreams of restoring priceless works, of being in the same room as the masters, but reality hit hard. Instead, I spend most of my days cataloging minor pieces, organizing exhibitions that barely break even, and managing a staff of two part-timers who care more about their phone screens than the art in front of them.

As I step into the gallery, the familiar smell of dust and canvas greets me. My boss, Mr. Jenkins, is already at his desk, eyes glued to his computer screen. I drop my bag by my desk and log in, already preparing for another day of juggling too many tasks with too little time.

"Morning, Isabella," Jenkins calls without looking up. "Got the proposal for the new exhibit?"

I freeze. "Oh, right. The proposal. I'm working on it."

He doesn't respond, and I let out a breath. It's not entirely a lie. I have been working on it, just not as much as I should be. Between managing the gallery's declining finances and trying to salvage what little reputation we have left, writing up an exhibit proposal for a collection we don't even have feels pointless.

I glance at the half-empty coffee cup on my desk, and the weight of it all settles over me like a fog. The gallery is struggling. I'm struggling. There's no big break coming, no mysterious patron waiting in the wings to save us. Just another day of keeping everything afloat, praying something will change.

But nothing ever does.

By noon, the gallery is quiet, save for the soft murmur of voices from a small group of tourists wandering through the exhibit space. I lean against my desk, massaging my temples. The budget report sits in front of me like a cruel joke. We're in the red again. Another month of losses.

The gallery's main exhibit, an uninspiring collection of mid-20th-century sculptures, isn't bringing in the crowds we need. Every exhibit feels like a compromise-never enough money, never enough time, never the pieces I dream of showcasing. It's a slow suffocation, watching the passion I once had for art fade under the weight of financial strain.

My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance at the screen: **Mom Calling.**

I hesitate, then swipe to answer. "Hey, Mom."

"How's work, honey?" Her voice is warm, but I can hear the underlying concern. She knows I'm struggling, even if I try to hide it.

"It's fine. Just the usual chaos." I force a smile, even though she can't see it.

"You work so hard, Isabella. Maybe it's time to think about something else. You've been with that gallery for years, and I just want to see you happy."

I sigh. We've had this conversation before. "I know, but it's not that simple. I've worked too hard to just walk away."

"Sometimes walking away isn't giving up, sweetheart. Sometimes it's the right choice."

I nod, even though I don't believe it. I love art. I love the work, even when it's hard. But love doesn't pay the bills. "I'll be fine, Mom. I've got a few things in the works."

We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up. As I set the phone down, I stare at the crumbling foundation of my career, wondering if I've been lying to myself all along. Is this really what I want? Is this what I worked so hard for?

I glance at the clock-2:15 p.m. There's a staff meeting in fifteen minutes, but my motivation is already drained. I rub my eyes, exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body.

Jenkins passes by my desk, a file in his hand. "Isabella, we've got another vendor coming in this afternoon. Make sure you're available to meet with them."

"Sure thing," I mumble, already feeling the weight of another pointless meeting. We're weeks away from hosting a small exhibition on modern ceramics, and the vendor will likely be trying to sell us more overpriced pieces we can't afford. It's all starting to feel like a hamster wheel-running in circles, but never getting anywhere.

By the time the day ends, I'm drained. My mind keeps cycling through the same questions: *Is this all there is?* I wanted more.

I dreamed of curating prestigious exhibits, of handling pieces that told stories of long-forgotten cultures. Instead, I'm stuck in this endless loop of mediocrity, barely holding on.

I lock up the gallery and step into the fading evening light, the city bustling around me as if mocking my stillness. Another day done. Another day closer to what? I don't even know anymore.

------

The apartment is quiet when I get home, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the old wooden floorboards under my tired feet. I drop my keys on the counter and kick off my shoes, feeling the weight of the day press harder with each step. The gallery is hanging by a thread, and so am I.

I slump onto the couch, staring blankly at the stack of bills on the coffee table. Each one feels like a reminder of how far I am from the life I dreamed of. The art world isn't what I thought it would be. I envisioned prestige, creativity, and passion. Instead, I've been handed long hours, dwindling budgets, and a gallery that's barely making rent.

Resting my head back, I close my eyes, trying to block out the nagging worry that gnaws at me. Every time I try to come up with a plan, a solution, all I see are dead ends. More exhibits, more outreach, more promotions-none of it feels like enough to save the gallery. I've given five years to this place. Five years of hope, but all I have to show for it is this suffocating sense of failure.

Maybe my mom was right. Maybe it's time to leave, find something else-something less draining. But the thought of walking away from art, from everything I've worked for, twists my stomach. How do you let go of a dream, even when it's slipping through your fingers?

I sigh, reaching for my laptop on the coffee table. There's an email from Mr. Jenkins reminding me about the same exhibit. An exhibition we'll struggle to sell. My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to reply, but something keeps me still. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe there's still something I can do to turn it all around.

For now, all I can do is hope that tomorrow brings something better.