She set her champagne flute on the table and said,
“If a newcomer—not an established, already-recognized artist—were to make a debut at H&W New York, there’d be no more successful entrance than that.”
“I agree.”
When he concurred, her smile deepened.
Standing at Chloe Kent’s side, Yuni traded a look with me across the diagonal. Her eyes told me she was confused about what their exchange meant—and I was just as lost. A debut show at a famous New York gallery... I hadn’t heard a word about it either.
“So you’re saying you could help arrange an H&W exhibition of Pettibone works from Mr. Lau’s collection—and in return... that’s the proposal, isn’t it?”
Yuni’s gaze, flicking back and forth between them, landed on me again. Our eyes met in midair and locked, rigid.
He was negotiating with Kent, using my debut as a condition. Or so it seemed.
“I only own three pieces myself, but my father’s been a longtime fan—he has more than thirty major works. H&W, of course, holds a good number of his key pieces, but... if you look over my father’s list, I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. It would go on record as the largest Pettibone show ever staged.”
He finished, lifted his glass with a devastating smile, and invited a toast. His attitude said he was certain the offer was impossible to refuse. Kent, too, seemed to respond positively to the young gallerist’s confident poise.
Yuni and I raised our glasses, but when I saw the curious look on her face—not a smile, not a frown—I suspected she was thinking the same thing I was.
That it felt strange to see him pull the card of his father’s collection as a means to close the deal.
“From my perspective, it’s obviously a mouthwatering offer... but can a private owner of thirty-plus Pettibones really be unknown in the art world?”
“He purchased most of them anonymously. Until recently he was on the leadership side at a fairly sizable gallery, so access to information on works he wanted was easy, and he usually bid through proxies or over the phone at auction. And he values holding more than showing—he doesn’t flaunt ownership. The collection has always been built quietly.”
“Hm. Someone who owns thirty-plus Pettibones won’t have only Pettibone, I imagine... At that scale, he’s probably someone I already know. May I ask which gallery he ran?”
Yuni’s eyes went to him. What mattered more than the content of the answer was whether he would answer at all. Half-believing, half-doubting, she seemed to settle on the idea that he wouldn’t—no, that she hoped he wouldn’t.
“He founded The Face Gallery in Hong Kong. He’s its honorary adviser now.”
He didn’t hesitate.
The tiny stiffness that flickered across Yuni’s face and eyes said... Suki Kim being his mother wasn’t the only thing he hadn’t told her—or Inwoo.
His father was news to me, too.
The Face Gallery.
If my memory was right, the party at the mansion in Hong Kong had been hosted by The Face Gallery. It was also where he and the manager first met and began working together. I didn’t know whether his old colleagues at that party had known he was the founder’s son, but I didn’t recall any conversation that gave that impression at the time.
Kent’s brow drew in as she processed the answer. Tilting her head like she could hardly believe it, she asked,
“Mr. Nick Lau?”
He nodded.
“Christie’s Hong Kong bought quite a few works from The Face, too.”
“I never heard the founder’s son had jumped into the same line of work.”
“Compared to my parents’ reputation, my profile’s been modest.”
He said it, but his smile hinted the words didn’t match his thoughts. Kent got the joke and nodded, laughing.
“I get it. When you can pick up a dollar bill off the sidewalk and people still say it’s thanks to your parents, of course you’d want to keep it quiet. Suki Kim and Nick Lau are famous enough in the art world to be the Eastern Picasso and Kahnweiler. Oh—was it rude to describe your parents like that?”
He shook his head with a smile.
“You meant it as a compliment—why take it any other way?”
“I’m a huge personal fan of Suki Kim. Haven’t been lucky enough to own a piece, though.”
Yuni’s lips parted toward him as if she wanted to say something, then pressed together again. Fingers tight around a glass of pale green cocktail, she dropped her eyes. Even meeting Chloe Kent couldn’t keep her elation going now.
In the dim light and with everyone focused on the talk, it was hard to tell whether he truly didn’t notice Yuni’s awkward reaction—or was choosing to ignore it.
His hand settled on my shoulder and squeezed, and he leaned a little farther toward Kent.
“In fact, starting with Seohyeon’s exhibition, I plan to open my gallery’s New York branch and begin programming there. Naturally, we want a collaborative relationship with H&W, given its tremendous influence in the New York art scene.”
“Director.”
Yuni blurted it in Korean, and then looked startled at herself. Kent glanced over, checking if she was okay. Yuni recovered her expression and managed a crooked smile. It was the moment the suspicion hardened: he hadn’t hinted to Yuni either about a New York branch.
“I... I’m sorry. I think I need to call a staff member back in Seoul. If it’s not too rude... may I step out a moment?”
When she asked to be excused and hurried past, he caught her shoulder and asked what was wrong. Yuni flicked a glance at Kent and said she must have overdone it since the earlier party—too much to drink—and asked Kent to cover for her.
Weaving through the people laughing and dancing, Yuni crossed the hall. I wrestled with whether to go after her—and if I did, what I could possibly say from my position—or whether letting him handle it was best. While I hesitated, she slipped out of the hall and turned into the corridor, vanishing from sight.
“That’s certainly more intriguing than a one-off show. A lot of people will be interested.”
With that, Kent began introducing two or three people to him right there. In no time the two standing tables around us were crowded with those showing personal or business interest in the New York gallery of The Face’s founder and Suki Kim’s son.
Some at the table said they’d seen my work at the gallery today and offered brief impressions. Others asked about the other artists represented by his gallery. Still others circled around his parents with polite curiosity and around him with cautious favor, angling for rapport.
It wasn’t stiff, but it wasn’t comfortable for me either. He guided the atmosphere with an easy touch—never overbearing, deftly leading—but I couldn’t ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) be sure he was actually enjoying himself.
He’d told me he hated the jealousy that called everything “thanks to your parents,” and he hated flattery just as much. He wouldn’t be a sacrifice for those who love to judge—whispering that the prince with a self-made label was putting on a thin show.
All the things he’d said about wanting to be only himself, apart from origin and background... the quiet empathy and connection we’d reached that night... and now the way he was here... It wasn’t only Yuni who felt unsettled.
There would be a reason. I wasn’t here to judge him.
I didn’t think taking advantage of one’s parents and family was immoral. It wasn’t a reason to dislike him. Maybe this was a second-best path chosen with flexibility—something he had to do to leap to the next level.
I only wanted to know why his thinking had changed, if it had. I wanted to understand him.
Suppressing the urge to leave and find Yuni, I handed my empty glass to a waiter and smiled my thanks to the woman beside me who had passed me a fresh cocktail. She said she was the editor-in-chief of a Chicago art magazine and planned to run an article on Shushu’s show in the next issue.
Just then, someone seized her shoulder and tugged her outward with a loud, showy greeting. They seemed acquainted, but she didn’t look thrilled.
Into the gap left by her half-turned body slipped a man dressed in bright, colorful, fashion-forward clothes—flashier than almost anyone else in the hall.
He slurped a cocktail that looked ready to spill thanks to his careless movements, and, standing on the diagonal across from him with the editor and me between them, he tilted his chin and peered up at him.
“I heard a tasty investment is leaking here. Smelled the money from across the room.”
His hair—nearly platinum, combed back and sleek—shone so brightly it was almost blinding. Whether it was the outfit or the slightly staggering posture of drink, he came off a little aggressive.
“Mr. Lau here—the host—is planning to open a New York branch, so that’s what everyone’s talking about.”
Most of those gathered seemed at least acquainted with the blond man.
“Well, I’m very interested in that sort of talk...”
“But it may be that investment isn’t needed. Financially, it sounds like he doesn’t require help.”
At someone’s explanation, the man scratched his cheek and gave him a probing look.
“Hmm. Shame. I have a feeling a lot of fun will happen at your gallery...”
The chief curator of the art museum I’d visited that afternoon—the one with the handsome beard and scholarly frames—stepped in to introduce the blond man to him.
Invited by the hosting gallery to attend the VIP opening, the man had flown in from Miami. He was the son of a collector famous for buying a work for twenty thousand dollars when a certain painter was unknown and reselling it ten years later for a ten-million-dollar profit. He himself was now counted among the notable collectors in the American South.
“‘Collector,’ sure. Sounds more like a speculator.”
He murmured it in Korean with his lips close to my ear. With the smile on his face, no one could guess what he’d said. Yuni or Juhan would have bantered back and laughed; I only felt my chest flutter and snuck a look at the man across.
Our eyes met. He lifted a glass whose cocktail was as gaudy as his hair and flashed a neat grin. I couldn’t even muster an awkward smile; I glanced away.
From the moment the blond arrived, the group’s mood began to tilt under his hand. Everyone else was drinking to a pleasant buzz; he was plainly too far gone. And in any culture, ten sober people have a hard time handling one drunk.
“Betas don’t like to admit it, but isn’t it true Alphas or Omegas stand out more in the arts? Especially in fine art—Alphas can’t match an Omega’s delicacy and creativity.”
He boasted that his investment method always started by checking a creator’s gender and looks.
“Among Omegas there are a few with this unusually mystical aura, and I collect those artists without fail. I mean... those Omegas always end up at the top.”
He squinted and shook his shoulders, laughing at his own private joke.
“Whether it’s on skill with a brush, or by bewitching the old men with clout in the art world with an Omega’s allure.”
“Omega this, Omega that—every other word. It’s getting unpleasant.”
He cut in at last, unable to listen any longer. His tone was courteous, but the hard breaks between words carried a clear displeasure.
The man, who’d been half-collapsed against the table, sprang upright, eyes gleaming—as if he’d been waiting for a reaction.
“Oh, did that bother you? Don’t get me wrong. No disparagement intended.”
People watched him now the way moviegoers endure a villain’s rampage just to see him get his comeuppance. The man himself felt like an offensive little show.
“If anything... I’m a bit old-fashioned about this. I believe Alphas should be with Omegas. And as for sex—well... you can’t compare it to a Beta. Just between us, sleeping with an Omega in heat, drunk on pheromones... ah... in that moment you’d almost die if you were asked to, it’s that good. Makes you feel sorry for men born Beta.”
Faces around the table went stiff with discomfort, but he didn’t care. He was so rude and coarse it felt like he was trying to freeze the room.
Morae, the manager, Inwoo—and Awi. The Alphas around me had all been so reasonable.
Yet this ugly man in front of me was—whether I acknowledged it or not—also a slice of the world I’d been lucky not to see. The thought made my skin crawl, like feeling a snake’s scales slide over bare flesh.
Within the group, he was targeting him most of all, and he had no intention of turning his back and defusing it passively. He lifted his glass and gave the man a cold look.
Receiving a freshly filled drink from a waiter, the man promptly spilled half of it on the floor and down the front of his flashy jacket. Then he laughed loudly to himself and licked the liquor from his fingers.
“Since Mr. Lau makes a point of publicly highlighting that Shushu is a Golden Omega and uses his beauty in promotion, I figured we might have something in common... Ah—truly an excellent strategy. ‘A beautiful Golden Omega’s art’—I didn’t even have to think about it. I bought five pieces today.”
At the line about buying Shushu’s work, something twitched in his brows and at the corner of his mouth.
“But. Shushu wasn’t the only one... was he?”
