Chapter 9: The Patron of Art
The Leeum Museum was silent and empty, its vast galleries hushed as a cathedral. The public had been gone for hours. The only light came from discreet spotlights illuminating the artworks, casting long shadows across the polished floors.
Luca stood before a delicate Degas sketch of a ballerina adjusting her slipper, her form captured in a few masterful, fleeting lines. He heard the soft click of Elena's heels on the marble behind him.
"This is… incredible," she whispered, her voice full of awe. "To see them like this, with no one else… it's like they're speaking just to you."
"That was the idea," Luca said, turning to face her. She was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, her hair down and flowing over her shoulders. She looked stunning, and utterly out of place in the post-apocalyptic future he was building. She was a living relic, and his desire to possess her intensified.
"A private viewing is the only way to truly appreciate art. No distractions. Just you and the artist's intention." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
They moved through the galleries, Luca playing the perfect guide. He didn't lecture; he made insightful comments, asked her opinion, and shared anecdotes about the artists he'd read about. He was constructing a persona she would find irresistible: powerful, yet sensitive; wealthy, yet cultured.
After the Degas collection, a museum attendant—a man on Luca's payroll—silently guided them to a smaller, private room where a table was set for two. Silver domes covered their plates, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in an ice bucket.
"I took the liberty of arranging a small supper," Luca said, pulling out her chair. "I find art stimulates the appetite."
The meal was exquisite: seared scallops, a delicate consommé, roasted quail. They talked easily. Elena spoke of her dreams of dancing Odette/Odile in Swan Lake, her voice tinged with a hopeful anxiety. Luca listened, his focus absolute, making her feel like she was the most fascinating woman in the world.
He, in turn, wove a tapestry of half-truths about his life. He spoke of "high-stakes negotiations" and "international investments," painting a picture of a jet-setting, slightly dangerous financier. It was close enough to the truth to be believable, yet vague enough to hide the monstrous reality.
As they sipped champagne, he leaned forward slightly, his demeanor shifting from charming to intensely serious.
"Elena, may I speak frankly?"
"Of course," she said, her blue eyes wide.
"I've spent my life around powerful, ambitious people. I've seen talent exploited and discarded. What you have…" He gestured to her, encompassing her entire being. "It's rare. It's a flame that the world will try to extinguish out of sheer envy."
She looked down at her hands, a faint blush on her cheeks. "It is a difficult world. Sometimes I wonder if it is all worth it."
"It is," he said, his voice firm. "But you need a patron. Someone who recognizes that talent and protects it. Someone who ensures that the flame not only survives but burns brighter than ever."
He was offering her a fantasy. Protection. Understanding. Support. For a lonely, ambitious artist far from home, it was a potent lure.
"What are you saying?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I'm saying I would like to be that person for you," Luca said. "I can make your life easier. A car to take you to rehearsals. An apartment closer to the theater. Freedom from financial worry. All I ask in return is the pleasure of your company. The chance to see that talent flourish."
It was a transaction, beautifully wrapped in the language of patronage. He wasn't buying her body; he was buying her entire life, her future. He was offering her a gilded cage before the world itself became a prison.
Elena was silent for a long time, swirling the champagne in her glass. The offer was overwhelming. The implications were clear. She would be his. But the benefits… the security…
"Luca, this is… very sudden. I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll think about it," he said smoothly, not pushing. He reached into his pocket and placed a small, black keycard on the table. "This is for a penthouse in the Tower Palace in Samseong-dong. It's empty. The view of the city is unparalleled. Go there tonight. See it for yourself. There are no strings. The choice is always yours."
It was a masterstroke. The ultimate display of power and trust. He was giving her the key to a fortune, asking for nothing in return. It was a test of her ambition and her avarice.
He drove her home himself in his silent, black Mercedes. He didn't try to kiss her. He simply took her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, a gesture of old-world chivalry.
"Goodnight, Elena. Whatever you decide, thank you for a perfect evening."
He watched her walk into her modest apartment building, the keycard clutched tightly in her hand. He knew what her decision would be. The temptation was too great. The alternative—the struggle, the loneliness, the inevitable failure of a dancing career—was too bleak.
He had not just seduced a woman; he had acquired a masterpiece. And he would keep her safe, polished, and perfect, a beautiful reminder of the world he had lost and the power he now wielded to preserve its finest pieces for himself.