A Private Conversation in the VIP Room
Private VIP room on the second floor of "Pioneer Gallery".
The decor here is completely different from the modern minimalism of the showroom downstairs. Heavy, deep red velvet curtains are drawn shut, blocking out outside light and prying eyes. The walls are covered with subtly patterned wallpaper, and a few low-hanging crystal wall lamps emit a soft, dim glow. The floor is covered with a soft, thick Persian carpet that absorbs all footsteps. The air is filled with the scents of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and a hint of sweet, feminine perfume.
On a large, Victorian sofa covered in dark green velvet, Mike Anderson sat languidly, his shirt collar open, revealing a few chest hairs. He held a thick Cuba Montecristo cigar in one hand, while the other was casually draped over the smooth shoulder of Isabella de la Cruz, who was only draped in a silk robe, her fingers lightly caressing her bare collarbone.
Isabella sat sideways, her robe loosely tied at the waist, the neckline open, revealing a large expanse of fair skin and a deep cleavage. Her face was flushed, her eyes somewhat unfocused, as she nestled in Mike's arms, holding a glass of amber liquor, sipping it slowly. The aloof and detached artist's demeanor she had displayed downstairs was now completely gone, replaced by a soft, ingratiating charm.
"Honey, you did really well today." Mike exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and whispered in Isabella's ear, his warm breath, tinged with the smell of cigar and alcohol, brushing against her neck. "Those idiots downstairs were practically staring. Especially that Asia Monkey, he bought three pieces at once. Haha, it seems my 'art investment' theory works wonders on these nouveau riche whose heads are only filled with money."
Isabella giggled, leaning even closer to him, her voice deliberately sweet. "That's all thanks to you, Mike. Without you, how could my painting have been seen by so many people in such a short time, and sold for such a price... You're truly my benefactor." She lifted her head and planted a wine-stained kiss on Mike's cheek.
Mike squinted contentedly, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her waist, giving her a firm squeeze. "Don't worry, baby. With me here, your paintings will quickly gain recognition in the industry. I'll arrange for the best critics to write articles for you, contact galleries in Europe and New York, and organize touring exhibitions. Before long, the name ' Isabella de la Cruz' will be on the lists of top collectors, and your paintings will fetch several times their original price."
He painted a glittering future with unwavering confidence, as if it were all a piece of cake for him. Isabella's eyes lit up with admiration and longing, though perhaps beneath that light lay a barely perceptible weariness and numbness.
"Oh, right," Mike said, as if suddenly remembering something, leaning closer to Isabella's ear and speaking in a softer, more suggestive tone, "When you go downstairs later, find a way to get Lin downstairs to buy a couple more paintings. I think he seems a bit interested in that biggest abstract painting. You could go over there, as the ' Painter,' and personally explain the inspiration behind it to him... in your 'way'. Men, especially these nouveau riche with a little money who don't understand art, love 'personal guidance from an artist.' Maybe he'll be so pleased that he'll buy that one too. I've already set a price for that painting." He released his arm from Isabella's waist and gestured a number.
Isabella's smile faltered slightly, but quickly returned, tinged with a hint of reproach and probing. "He... isn't he your friend? Why are you doing this..."
"A friend?" Mike scoffed, taking a puff of his cigar. The smoke hit Isabella's face, causing her to cough lightly. "How could I be friends with a yellow-skinned Monkey? Honey, you're too naive. He's just a country bumpkin who got lucky and made a fortune. He's eyeing the 'high returns' of my company's investment projects, shamelessly clinging to me, hoping to get a piece of the action. You think he really understands investing? Really understands art? He can't even play golf properly; his swing looks like he's digging the ground! I just made up some stories about 'bookmakers' and 'hard currency,' and he believed them, eagerly handing over his money to buy paintings. Who else should I fleece if not this kind of idiot?"
His tone was filled with undisguised contempt and racist malice, as if he were talking about a lifeless tool or a clown for amusement. Isabella listened, her eyes flickering, but she said nothing, simply downing her drink in one gulp, as if trying to suppress something with alcohol.
Mike ignored her reaction and continued smugly, "Otherwise, why do you think I brought him to this kind of event? And 'patiently' lectured him? It's to make him feel that I treat him like one of my own, that I'm mentoring him, and that I'm sharing real 'insider opportunities.' This illusion of being accepted by the 'upper circle' is more attractive to these insecure and greedy nouveau riche than any interest rate. The more he buys, the more money he'll probably invest in my project... and then, hehe."
He let out a low chuckle, his hands roaming restlessly over Isabella's body.
Isabella's body trembled slightly. She forced a smile and changed the subject, "You... is your investment project really that good? Is the rate of return really that high?"
"Of course!" Mike immediately perked up, as if this was the topic he was truly interested in. "This one I recently came across is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! It's backed by Middle East sovereign wealth fund and one of Wall Street's top investment banks, specifically targeting early-stage investments in disruptive technologies. The internal rate of return projections are absolutely astounding! Plus, the risk is extremely low, with implicit guarantees. If it weren't for how well we clicked, I wouldn't normally tell just anyone about this kind of opportunity."
He observed Isabella's expression, noticing she seemed both tempted and hesitant. He then intensified his efforts, his tone becoming unusually "sincere" and "considerate": "You don't need to understand those complicated financial models and jargon, baby. You just need to trust me. You give me your money, and I'll manage it for you. If you make a profit, it's all yours. And if... I mean, if there are any unpredictable market fluctuations and you lose money, it's on me! How about that? Pretty generous of me, right?"
Isabella looked up at Mike's blue eyes, which gleamed with shrewdness and desire, seemingly genuinely moved by his "generosity" and "responsibility." She bit her lower lip and hesitated, "I... I don't actually have much money, just some income from selling paintings, and a little something left over from my family..."
"Invest as much as you can!" Mike waved his hand, full of confidence. "Every little bit counts! Besides, with you joining, our 'artist section' will be more complete, and it sounds better too. This is a great opportunity to help you achieve financial freedom and completely break free from the past. Think about it, you won't have to put up with those gallery owners anymore, you won't have to please anyone to sell your paintings, you can focus on creating and be a true, pure artist. And I will always be by your side, supporting you."
The scene he described was so beautiful it was almost unreal, and coupled with his affectionate gaze and alluring promises, he seemed like a lovestruck man willing to do anything for love. Isabella's eyes gradually became misty, as if she was truly attracted by this beautiful prospect, and her body softly leaned back into Mike's arms.
"You... you're so kind, Mike," she murmured, her voice filled with emotion.
"Of course, you're my sweetheart." Mike lowered his head and kissed her forehead, while his other hand skillfully untied the belt of her nightgown and slipped inside. Isabella trembled and let out a soft moan, not resisting but instead actively responding.
The temperature seemed to rise in the VIP room. The smoke from cigars mingled with the scent of desire.
As Mike worked, he whispered sweet nothings and made wonderful promises about the "investment project" in Isabella's ear, as if it were just a romantic interlude. Isabella, with her eyes closed, endured it all, but beneath the intoxicated expression on her face, something seemed to be slowly fading away.
Downstairs in the exhibition hall, the music remained soft. Lin Feng stood before the enormous abstract painting, his gaze seemingly piercing through the canvas, seeing everything unfolding in the VIP room upstairs, and also seeing the even dirtier and colder essence of the transaction behind it all.
He picked up the champagne the waiter had just handed him, took a small sip, his eyes calm and unwavering, only the faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth conveying a hint of cold understanding and mockery.
The play continues.
The actors were all very dedicated.
It's just unknown who will be standing in the center of the stage to receive "applause" when the curtain finally falls.