-The Knowing Look

As the guests stood to leave, murmuring amongst themselves, Kenji Sato lingered taking his time, fingertips tracing the rim of his porcelain cup, sipping tea, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Not rushing, not hesitating—just waiting.

Lex didn't rush him. He simply stacked the teacups, listening to the soft chime of porcelain against lacquer. Kenji wasn't a man who lingered without reason.

The older man turned his teacup slowly in his hands, his expression unreadable. "Wave Series No. 2 lable 11 will be in my tea room."

Lex turned slightly, lifting a brow. "Good choice."

Kenji hummed in agreement, swirling the last remnants of tea in his cup. "You made a wise decision tonight. Selling selectively."

Lex smirked. "You expected otherwise?"

Kenji's lips barely curled in amusement. "No. But I've seen men turn their inheritance into spectacle. Your restraint is rare."

He set his cup down, tapping a single finger against the lacquered table.

Then, almost casually—

"Mei Lei used to talk about her grandchild."

Lex's fingers paused mid-motion.

Kenji's gaze remained on the ripples in his tea. "She never named him, but she spoke of his hands. Quick, confident. A child who painted before he wrote. A child who could not help but create."

Lex didn't blink. Didn't react.

Kenji exhaled slowly, as if remembering. "She was proud. And amused. Said he had the stubbornness of youth and the arrogance of talent—but always, always, the heart of an artist."

Lex's fingers tightened slightly against the porcelain before he forced them to relax.

"Sounds like a handful."

Kenji chuckled. "She thought so too. But she adored him. Said he would either change the world or burn it down trying."

Lex exhaled through his nose, smirking. "Dramatic."

"She was a poet at heart." Kenji leaned back slightly, studying him. "As was her father."

There it was.

The real reason Kenji lingered.

"Lei Yongzhi was kind to me when I was starting out," Kenji said quietly. "I was barely more than a student, scraping by. But he treated me as if my voice already mattered."

Lex tilted his head. "And did it?"

Kenji gave him a slow, knowing look. "All voices matter, in time."

Lex didn't respond to that. Just let it settle.

Kenji took a slow sip of tea before speaking again.

"You know, I used to wonder why Ling Jun stopped."

Lex lifted a brow. "Stopped?"

Kenji tapped the rim of his cup. "The bamboo series, he never painted another after it. Critics debated why for years. Some said age. Some said he had nothing left to prove."

He turned slightly, sharp eyes locking onto Lex. "But after seeing your Wave Series, I think I understand."

Lex's smirk was slow, unreadable. "Oh? And what's your conclusion?"

Kenji set his cup down, tilting his head.

"Because when one wave reaches the shore, another must begin."

Lex's smirk faltered—just slightly.

Kenji let the silence stretch before continuing.

"Paint as often as you are inspired. Not for the world. Not for the market. But because the ink moves in you."

He stood, straightening his cuffs. "If you do that, you will never get trapped."

Lex leaned back, watching him. "You sound sure of that."

Kenji smiled faintly. "Because you are not done, Latham. Not even close."

And with that, he turned and left, his presence lingering even after the door shut behind him.

Lex sat there, alone in the tea room, fingers tracing the rim of an empty cup. He hadn't planned to paint. Not after Kenji's words, not after the weight of the auction, not after everything.

But his fingers wouldn't stop itching.

So, sometime after midnight, when the house had gone quiet and the guests had all gone, he found himself standing before the blank canvas, brush in hand.

It started simple—a wave, bold and sweeping, black ink spreading across the page like it had been waiting to be born.

Then another.

Then came the color.

Deep grey bled into the crests, dark black brushed against the edges, subtle gold flickered where light would catch the tide.

But it didn't stop at waves.

Mountains took form next—strong, unwavering.

Then rivers—weaving, endless, reaching toward something unseen.

Lex lost himself in the strokes, in the motion, in the quiet rhythm of ink meeting canvas.

He didn't hear the door open.

Didn't sense her presence until it was too late.

Nataline Zhang stood at the threshold, arms folded, silent.

Lex didn't freeze.

Didn't startle.

But he felt her eyes on him.

Watching. Calculating.

For the first time in years, Lex felt exposed.

But he didn't stop.

The brush moved, instinct guiding his hand, the strokes answering something only his bones could hear.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

The room was filled with nothing but the sound of brushstrokes, the faint rustling of fabric, the slow, deliberate breaths he took between each stroke.

Thirty minutes passed before she made a sound.

A quiet inhale.

Lex finally looked up, meeting her gaze.

Nat's eyes were wide—not in shock, not in disbelief, but something deeper.

She stepped forward, slowly, as if not wanting to break whatever spell was in the air.

Lex exhaled, setting the brush down.

"Say whatever you're thinking and get it over with."

Nat didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she stepped closer, arms still crossed, her gaze flicking between him and the canvas. Lex could practically hear her thoughts ticking like a stock ticker.

Finally, she spoke. "I want one."

Lex raised a brow. "A painting?"

Nat smirked. "Of course, a painting. Specifically—me, as a flower."

Lex blinked. "Come again?"

She gestured vaguely at the ink still drying on his latest work. "You paint waves, mountains, rivers—but can you paint me?"

Lex let out a short, dry laugh. "You, as a flower. That's an interesting request."

Nat grinned. "I contain multitudes, Latham."

Lex rolled his eyes and turned back to clean his brush. "And what flower am I supposed to turn you into?"

"A lotus, obviously." Nat shrugged. "Something elegant, powerful—thrives even in murky waters."

Lex gave her a flat look. "You just want a flower that sounds poetic when you brag about it."

She didn't deny it.

Instead, she tapped the edge of his worktable. "Give me the friend price."

Lex smirked. "Meaning?"

Nat's eyes gleamed. "I pay."

Lex shook his head. "That's not what 'friend price' means."

"It does when you're rich."

Lex sighed, but there was a ghost of amusement in his expression. "Fine. You'll get your flower."

Nat had made her demand with all the confidence of someone placing a winning bid at an auction—completely certain that she would get what she wanted.

Lex pressed the brush to the canvas, the first stroke blooming onto the paper.

It started with a single lotus—bold, upright, reaching.

The petals stretched outward, soft but unyielding, the ink bleeding slightly at the edges, giving it the look of something delicate, but determined.

Lex let the rhythm take over.

One stroke at a time.

A curve here. A shadow there.

The lotus began to take shape, its roots unseen but implied.

"So, what's the verdict?" Nat asked, voice lighter than usual. "Do I make a good flower?"

Lex kept painting. "That depends."

"On?"

His smirk was subtle, but it was there. "How well you handle the storm."

Nat's brow furrowed slightly, and then she saw it.

Lex's hand moved with certainty, adding bold, sweeping strokes—winds curling around the lotus, waves pressing against it.

It wasn't just a flower.

It was a battle.

The petals were untouched by the storm, but not because it was safe. It survived because it refused to bend.

Nat was quiet for a long moment.

"Huh," she murmured, watching the ink settle into the page. "That's a lot of drama for one flower."

Lex tilted his head slightly, eyes still on the painting.

"So are you."

A beat.

Then Nat laughed.

Not her usual sharp, teasing kind—but something softer.

She stepped forward, arms crossed, studying the finished piece with the kind of look she usually reserved for numbers, negotiations, and inevitable victories.

"I like it."

Lex wiped the excess ink from his brush, smirking. "I wasn't asking."

Nat rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in them now.

" Sign it so I can putting it in my office."

Lex huffed. "Yeah, yeah."

As she turned to leave, she paused.

"Seriously, Latham. You should paint more."

Lex didn't answer.

He just stared at the ink drying on the page—the lotus standing against the storm.

Satisfied, Nat studied him for a long moment, then glanced back at the painting.

Her smirk faded slightly.

"You know, you should show this to the world."

Lex's jaw tensed.

Nat caught it immediately. "What? You're willing to sell waves for millions, but you won't show the ones that matter?"

Lex exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the strokes—the rivers stretching into something unseen.

"Not everything is meant to be sold."

Nat tilted her head. "Then don't sell it. But hiding it? That's a waste."

Lex didn't answer.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what to say.