The highest amount she offered was $300,000—for a hauntingly beautiful painting of a blind folded angel with six wings, its hand delicately holding a red thread that resembled flowing blood more than re string.
Not long after the silent auction concluded, the staff collected all the bidding boxes to tally the results. About an hour later, just after sunset, they returned holding the final list of winners and handed it to the MC. Standing beside the MC was Andrew, and in that mont, Hera finally realized the truth. Andrew was the artist behind this incredible art gallery.
She was stunned.
Her mind imdiately replayed every interaction she’d had with him, anxiously wondering if she had ever said anything embarrassing or offensive. When she was certain she hadn’t, she let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Then the MC began announcing the winners, reading out the nas alongside the artwork each person had won and the final bidding prices.
Athena managed to win two of the paintings she liked and nodded happily as she followed one of the staff mbers to complete the paynt process. One by one, four or five more winners were announced. Despite the large number of participants in the silent auction, it quickly beca clear that only a select few had actually secured the pieces they wanted—so even winning multiple paintings. It didn’t take long for everyone to realize that these individuals were the true elite among the crowd.
Finally, Hera’s na was called.
Her total bid? No less than ten million dollars.
The room erupted in polite applause, drawing everyone’s attention to her. Hera instantly felt self-conscious as she beca the center of attention. She could feel the weight of dozens of gazes—so filled with awe and admiration, others laced with curiosity, envy, or subtle suspicion.
When it was finally Hera’s turn, sothing unexpected happened. Instead of a staff mber coming forward to guide her through the paynt process like they had with everyone else, Andrew himself stepped up.
"Let’s go, Hera," he said casually, as if they were already close.
Then, without giving her a chance to respond, he gently led her away in front of the entire crowd.
To the onlookers, it imdiately appeared as though Hera hadn’t co just to bid on artwork—she had co to support Andrew personally. An unspoken understanding passed through the room. The subtle looks and whispers that followed said it all, though Hera remained blissfully unaware, already being whisked away by Andrew.
Had Leo, Luke, Dave, Zhane, Rafael, or Xavier been there, the situation would’ve taken a very different turn. They definitely would’ve misunderstood the scene and rushed after her, demanding an explanation from Andrew.
But since none of them were present, they would only hear about it later—and when they did, there was no doubt they’d be squirming with jealousy. After all, in their minds, the idea of bees and butterflies swarming around Hera while they weren’t around was absolutely unforgivable.
"So you really are the artist, huh? You weren’t lying," Hera murmured as Andrew led her away.
"I never lie," Andrew replied with a casual shrug.
Hera couldn’t help but find him a little eccentric—abrupt, even—but strangely sincere. There was no trace of hidden agenda in his deanor, so she allowed him to lead her without protest, quietly following his pace.
Before long, they arrived at a private VIP lounge tucked away behind the gallery. To her surprise, Andrew personally brewed a cup of hibiscus tea, added a generous spoonful of honey, and set it down in front of her.
"Please, have a taste," he said. "While you enjoy that, let’s go over the list of your bids. I’ll give you the chance to inspect each piece more closely to confirm their quality. Then we’ll make sure everything is packaged and delivered safely to your address."
His tone had shifted completely—gone was the casual eccentric, replaced by a focused and professional deanor. Hera blinked at the sudden change, caught a little off guard by how smoothly he transitioned into business mode.
"The ’Ragnarok’ was sold to you for $2.5 million. Then ’The Eclipse’ went for $800,000, ’Achilles’ for $670,000, and so on—bringing the total to $12.3 million," Andrew listed with a slight smile. "That’s quite a sum. You practically ransacked all my artwork in this exhibition."
He chuckled, but Hera frowned slightly. ’Ransacked?’ It sounded like she’d stolen sothing instead of participating in an auction, and the word choice didn’t sit well with her. She opened her mouth to object, but before she could speak, Andrew continued.
"But since you bought so many of my paintings—and, by the way, half of the proceeds go to a charity foundation supporting orphaned children’s education—you’ve shown just how generous you are. So, as a gesture of gratitude, I’m gifting you Ragnarok."
Hera blinked in surprise, but Andrew wasn’t done.
"My mother once told that people and things each have their own fate. When I saw you looking at that painting, I felt it—it wasn’t just admiration. It was like you were spiritually connected to it. Not emotionally, but on a deeper level."
"So I followed you around—not to be creepy—but because I wanted to see if you were just casually browsing. But then I got curious. I noticed that you had a sharp eye for art. You managed to bid the exact amounts the appraisers had valued the pieces at. That’s not sothing a casual visitor would do, so I started wondering if maybe you were an appraiser... or even an artist yourself."
"Then there was the way you moved through the gallery—calm, confident, just jotting down numbers without a hint of hesitation or concern about the price. That’s when I started thinking... maybe you’re a wealthy heiress or soone with a deeper connection to the art world. That curiosity, combined with my mother’s words—’people and things have their fate’—led to bring you here."
"eting you today felt a little like fate. And because of that, I decided to gift you the Ragnarok painting. I truly believe it was ant to be yours."
"Why would you give such a painting? Do you want sothing from ?" Hera asked cautiously, her voice calm but guarded. In her experience, nothing ever ca without strings attached.
There was no such thing as a free lunch, especially from soone she barely knew. It was better to lay things out clearly than to let misunderstandings take root. She didn’t lack the money to pay for the artwork—and she certainly wouldn’t accept a gift that might carry hidden expectations.
Andrew gave a small, thoughtful smile. "No, I don’t want anything from you," he replied simply. "I just want to see my creation go to the right hands—soone who truly appreciates it, or better yet, has a deeper connection with it. My paintings are like my children," he added, glancing at the Ragnarok image on the nearby screen. "And when I painted that one... I was inspired by a dream. It ca to out of nowhere, vivid and haunting, and it stayed with for years."
As he took a sip of his tea, his expression shifted—eyes clouding slightly, as if reliving a distant mory. The sincerity in his voice caught Hera’s attention, and despite herself, she found her curiosity stirred.
"A dream? What kind?" Hera asked imdiately, leaning in with interest. She, too, had felt a strange, almost spiritual pull toward the painting—as if it resonated with sothing deep inside her.
Andrew nodded slowly, his expression turning distant. "When I was five, I suddenly felt... aware, like I’d woken up from a fog I didn’t even know I was in. The world around felt frozen, like ti had paused. Then, a single drop of water landed on the crown of my head from the sky—and that night, I ca down with a terrible fever. While I was delirious, I saw... angels. They circled around , their wings glowing, their eyes filled with sorrow."
He paused, his gaze lowering to the table as he recalled the mory. "And then I dread—again and again—of a world in ruin. Not because of war, but because people lost themselves. Blinded by greed, pride, and ignorance, they turned on one another. It was madness."
His voice softened. "But the image that stayed with the most... was a girl. She was beautiful, and she wept as she watched it all unfold. She was bound in chains—shackled by sothing or soone. I couldn’t tell if it was the gods or devils who did it. All I knew was that she was powerless, invisible to the six angels who hovered around her, ant to protect her... but they couldn’t see her suffering."
He let out a slow breath. "That dream haunted for years. It wouldn’t let go. So eventually, I painted it—every detail burned into my mind. I poured everything I had into that piece, hoping to understand it... or maybe, to let it go."
"And over the years, I kept painting more and more images—visions that ca to in my dreams," Andrew said with a soft sigh.
Hera’s brows rose slightly. "You an... all the paintings in this exhibition ca from your dreams?"
Andrew shook his head. "Not all of them. But the ones you chose? Every single one ca from a dream."
Hera’s heart skipped a beat, though she couldn’t quite explain why. There was a strange tug in her chest, like a thread being pulled from sowhere deep within her. She felt on the verge of understanding sothing—sothing important—but it remained just out of reach.
___
Thank you, Carol_Ma, Shell_Rodriguez, and Cinparo, for the Golden Tickets!
Reviews
All reviews (0)