The auction was a resounding success.
Collectors, critics, and celebrities from all over Asia had flocked to that small, high-ceilinged Bangkok gallery to bid on Noah's most poignant works—each brushstroke imbued with five years of suffering, yearning, and unobtrusive reinvention.
But even as the thunderous applause reverberated in his ears, Noah's eyes wandered to the crowd. Searching.
And when he thought—just for a second—that he saw him, standing at the far back in a black cap and mask—
He blinked, and the figure was gone.
Maybe he was imagining things again. Perhaps he was hoping too much.
Outside, the afternoon sun was crisp and warm.
Scarlet had her sunglasses on, lips curved into a soft smile. "You've been quiet since the show ended."
"I'm just tired," Noah lied, sliding into the restaurant booth across from her. "That's all."
She signaled the server over, ordered both of their favorites without asking. She always remembered the little things.
