"Why is the man in the car alone?"
The question came from the doorway, quiet enough that Meilin almost missed it.
Madam Wen turned. Her posture changed so abruptly that Meilin looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to find the hotel owner arriving to announce a fire.
Instead, she found a man in a charcoal suit.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with beautiful dark eyes fixed on the painting rather than the people gathered around it. He possessed the sort of face that made a person pause to look again, even if the expression on it suggested looking once would be quite enough.
Behind him stood another man holding a tablet.
"Chairman Zhao," Madam Wen greeted.
Ah, so that was why the air had suddenly become expensive.
Meilin had heard of Zhao Jingshen, of course. Anyone who lived in Xia City had. His name appeared in business reports, charity announcements and the occasional scandalous headline that turned out to concern somebody else.
She had simply never expected him to materialise in front of her unfinished price tag.
He was still looking at the canvas.
"Well?" Madam Wen prompted gently.
Meilin realised the question had been directed at her.
She looked back at the painted figure. The man sat in his car while the rest of the city began its day.
"I don't know," she answered.
Madam Wen's eyebrows rose. Ling, beside her, went very still.
"You don't know?" the coordinator repeated.
"I wasn't in the car."
A silence followed.
Meilin resisted the urge to wince. Splendid. She had just informed one of the continent's wealthiest men that she was not, in fact, psychic.
But Zhao Jingshen didn't appear offended.
So she continued.
"I saw him from across the street one morning. He was there when I arrived and still there when I left. Everyone walked past. Nobody bothered him."
She remembered the cold seeping through her shoes that morning, the paper cup warming her fingers, and the strange envy she'd felt watching the man sit motionless while an entire city demanded movement.
"I don't know whether he was lonely, tired, angry or simply enjoying the quiet," she said. "I didn't think it was fair to decide for him."
Her fingers tightened around the portfolio handle.
"But I didn't want him to disappear into the background, either."
Zhao Jingshen studied the painting a moment longer.
Then his gaze moved to her.
Meilin had met plenty of intimidating people. She could be intimidating herself when the occasion demanded it. But Zhao Jingshen wasn't making an effort at all. And somehow, that was worse.
His attention was unsettlingly complete.
She became suddenly aware of a loose strand of hair against her cheek, the faint smear of ultramarine near her wrist and the fact that she'd eaten only one dumpling since morning.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Jiang Meilin."
He nodded once.
There was no compliment, no grand declaration about her talent. Somehow, that made his attention feel less like charity.
Chen Li approached his employer. "Chairman, the foundation briefing."
Zhao Jingshen glanced at him.
"Later."
Chen Li fell silent. Since when did Chairman Zhao postpone a foundation briefing for an unfamiliar artist? This was a first, and he had an uncomfortable suspicion it wouldn't be the last. His face remained neutral, although his toes curled inside his shoes.
Meilin's stomach performed an unpleasant little somersault. Not because of the man—certainly not. Because Madam Wen was still holding her registration form, and nobody had yet told her what to write in the price column.
The coordinator cleared her throat.
"We were just discussing the artist's asking price."
"Then discuss it," Zhao Jingshen said.
Meilin almost smiled.
Excellent. A billionaire who believed in letting a woman finish her paperwork. Progress.
Madam Wen held out a pen.
"How much, Miss Jiang?"
Meilin stared at the blank space.
She'd rehearsed the answer on the ride over. Several answers, actually. Most had seemed ridiculous after the first five minutes.
Twenty thousand yuan would cover her overdue rent, replenish her supplies and leave enough to buy a proper meal without examining the price of every dish.
Thirty thousand might convince a collector the painting belonged in a room like this.
Fifty thousand would probably convince Madam Wen she needed medical attention.
She wrote 38,000 yuan.
Ling's eyes flicked toward the form, but she said nothing.
Madam Wen examined the figure.
"Ambitious for an artist without representation."
Meilin's mouth went dry. It was the boldest number she'd dared to write. She refused to price her first real chance too low—especially with a ridiculously handsome billionaire still studying the canvas. She might be an unknown artist, but she wasn't asking for charity.
"I know."
"And if no one buys it?"
"Then I'll take it home." She forced a smile. "It already knows the way."
Madam Wen's lips twitched.
"Very well. The charity's commission is stated in the agreement. Read it before signing."
"I will."
She meant it. Meilin had been poor enough these past years to understand what a careless signature could cost, even if she hadn't always been poor enough to fear one. She read the commission clause twice before signing.
A faint sound came from the doorway.
Zhao Jingshen had turned to leave.
For an instant, Meilin thought he might say something else. Instead, his eyes passed once over the painting, lingering on the solitary figure behind the car window.
Then he was gone.
Ling exhaled so loudly that one of the attendants looked over.
"Do you have any idea who that was?" she whispered.
"A man who asks difficult questions before I've eaten lunch."
"Meilin!"
"What? Was I supposed to curtsy?"
"Absolutely not. Your knees would make a terrible sound."
Meilin laughed, and the tightness in her chest eased.
Madam Wen took the signed form.
"Miss Jiang, your painting stays in the east alcove. Please be available when the collectors arrive. Some prefer to speak with the artist before considering a purchase."
Meilin stared at her.
The words were simple. Ordinary, even.
Your painting stays.
She looked toward the attendants securing the frame beneath a spotlight. For weeks, that canvas had lived in an apartment where the roof leaked during heavy rain and the electricity sometimes failed without warning.
Now strangers would stop in front of it.
Perhaps they would dislike it. Perhaps they would walk straight past.
But it was here.
Her eyes burned unexpectedly. She blinked before Ling could notice.
Too late.
Ling caught her hand, squeezing once. Neither of them spoke.
A porter wheeled another painting into the room, forcing the attendants aside. Work resumed. Someone complained about a missing catalogue. The world continued, utterly indifferent to the fact that Meilin wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
She drew a careful breath.
"Come on," Ling said softly. "We still have to get you changed for your shift."
Meilin looked down at her dress.
"From exhibiting artist to temporary staff in under ten minutes. Truly, my range is impressive."
"Your range can carry a tray without dropping it."
"No promises."
---
Outside the exhibition room, Zhao Jingshen stopped beside a window while Chen Li checked the foundation briefing.
"Shall I obtain Miss Jiang's portfolio, Chairman?"
"No."
Chen Li looked up, surprised.
Zhao Jingshen's gaze returned briefly to the open doorway.
The painting had held his attention because of the man in the car. The artist had held it because she refused to invent a story about him.
Most people rushed to explain what they didn't understand.
She hadn't.
"Foundation briefing," he said.
Chen Li straightened. "This way, sir."
Neither noticed Lian Fei standing at the far end of the corridor.
She had arrived early, hoping to intercept Zhao Jingshen before the photographers did. Instead, she'd watched him linger beside a painting while a young woman in a simple black dress spoke to him without the slightest hint of deference.
Lian Fei's smile remained in place.
"Who is she?" she asked her assistant.
The assistant consulted the registration tablet.
"Jiang Meilin. An emerging artist. She's also working the event tonight."
Lian Fei looked through the open door at the small cityscape.
Then she looked toward the corridor where Zhao Jingshen had disappeared.
"An artist," she repeated.
Her assistant waited.
Lian Fei adjusted the diamond at her throat.
"How interesting."