Sweet Hatred Chapter 53: A familiar game

Aria’s POV

I excused myself from Kael’s side with the kind of graceful smile that could fool a god. He didn’t say anything when I left—not even a glance—and yet I could still feel his eyes on . Always watching. Always reading.

I slipped into the soft, golden haze of the ballroom, where champagne shimred in tall flutes and laughter hovered just above the music like perfu. A few guests paused to greet , their smiles a little too bright, their curiosity far too thinly veiled.

I returned each pleasantry with the practiced warmth of soone who knew how to play this ga—polite, charming, untouchable.

Beneath my skin, I felt the tension unwind slowly, like a ribbon loosening around my ribs. Being near Kael for too long felt like dancing with a blade pressed to your back. Add n like executives and Investors to the mix, and the whole room beca an orchestra of veiled threats and gilded lies.

I turned toward the performance near the center of the ballroom—dancers in sheer silks gliding across the marble floor like living poetry. Every movent was fluid, effortless.

They twirled in slow circles, hands fluttering like birds, bodies swaying in sync with the haunting notes of a violin playing sowhere above us.

The music pulled at sothing soft in . I envied how free they looked, how lost in the mont they were. No masks, no strategy—just movent and air.

Drawn by a softer light, I wandered a few steps away, where a painting caught my eye—oil on canvas, abstract but emotional. Brushstrokes tangled like veins, bold and moody, with a palette that bled into itself. There was grief in it. Beauty and ruin. Sothing about it made my chest ache a little.

I leaned in, studying the edges, wondering who painted it and what loss they were mourning when—

"Powerful, isn’t it?" ca a voice from behind .

It was low, confident, male. And unfamiliar.

I turned around smoothly, masking the jolt that ran up my spine at the sound of his voice.

He was tall, maybe mid-forties, with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored suit that was trying too hard to look effortless. His smile was sharp, the kind that curved too perfectly at the corners. And his eyes—dark, too curious—flicked over like I was already halfway undressed.

I recognized him instantly.

Shoji Takahiro.

One of the n Kael had been speaking with earlier, his voice the most obnoxious among them, even from across the room. Kael had gathered informations about them before the party and went through the file in front of . Shoji wasn’t just powerful—he was cocky, and worse, he thought charm was sothing you could purchase with influence and a Rolex.

I glanced over his shoulder toward where Kael had been standing earlier with Maeda and Hayashi, but the space was empty now. Just a cluster of waiters weaving through guests and a woman laughing into her glass.

Of course.

I almost laughed.

Kael was playing another one of his sick little gas. Just like Milan, when Marco Benedetti had "accidentally" found himself alone with at the terrace, spilling champagne and charm all over his Gucci shoes. Only for Kael to admit, with the most maddening calm, that he pushed Marco to approach —just to see how I’d react.

He wanted a reaction. He always wanted a reaction.

Not tonight.

I wasn’t going to fall for it again.

I tilted my head at Takahiro and smiled.

"Very powerful," I echoed softly, glancing back at the painting. "Though I wonder if the artist was feeling grief... or rage."

"Ah," he stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back, like so museum curator. "A woman who can read art. Rare these days."

I offered a small laugh, polite, detached.

Takahiro moved to stand beside , his shoulder nearly brushing mine. "Though I must say, the painting isn’t half as captivating as you are."

There it was. Right on cue.

I turned toward him, keeping my expression soft—maybe even intrigued, if he was stupid enough to believe it. Inside, I was already planning how I’d skin Kael alive for this. Slowly. With words first.

"Well, that depends," I said sweetly. "Are you comparing to the color palette or the brushstrokes?"

He laughed, a bit too loud. "Both. Bold, dangerous, unforgettable."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes.

"And here I thought we were still talking about the painting," I murmured.

He didn’t hear the edge in my voice—or didn’t care.

"Would you like to see more?" he offered, gesturing toward a hallway lined with art. "The Maeda estate has quite the collection. So pieces are only shown at private events like this."

I hesitated for just a second, then smiled again.

Why not? Let Kael have his fun. He’d pay for it later anyway.

"Lead the way," I said softly.

The further we walked, the quieter it got.

The music and laughter from the ballroom faded into sothing muted, like a mory. The lighting dimd ever so slightly—warm golden sconces casting long, elegant shadows across the walls. Paintings lined the hall, each more dramatic than the last—gods and devils tangled in battle, lovers lost in ti, haunting eyes staring out from centuries ago.

Shoji moved like a man used to being listened to. His voice filled the space with stories about each piece—where it ca from, what auction house it passed through, which royal hand once owned it. His tone was polished, cultured, but I wasn’t fooled. There was a slickness to it, the kind of oil that doesn’t co off easily.

He paused in front of a crimson-splashed canvas, one with an abstract silhouette bent in what looked like grief... or worship. I couldn’t tell.

"This one," he said, stepping closer, "was painted by a woman in France. Her husband had just died. She locked herself in a room for six months and only painted in the dark." He glanced at . "Isn’t that beautiful?"

"Sounds like trauma," I said lightly.

He chuckled, either missing the bite or pretending not to hear it.

"I suppose beauty and pain are sisters, no?" he said. "I’ve always believed a woman’s most powerful monts co from the wreckage of her emotions. That’s when her art flourishes... or her body becos even more enticing."

I raised a brow, smiling tightly. "That sounds like sothing a man would say when he wants to profit from a woman’s breakdown."

He smiled wider. "Not profit. Appreciate."

Right.