Chapter 4

Modern Art & Modern Arrogance

Asher POV

It was supposed to be a peaceful day off.

Key word: supposed.

I was dragged into this shiny white-walled gallery by my roommate, who claimed, and I quote, “you need culture before your sarcasm becomes a public safety hazard.”

Rude. But not entirely inaccurate.

So, there I was—walking in with a half-cold coffee, wearing my favorite hoodie that had definitely seen better days, sneakers that squeaked on polished floors, and an open mind. Okay, half-open. Maybe a crack.

I wandered past abstract blobs and metal rods glued to canvas until something caught my eye. A huge painting in the center of the hall.

Red. Angry red. Black blotches. The whole thing looked like a blender had a breakdown. I tilted my head and squinted at it. It honestly gave off "bloodthirsty tomato fight" energy.

I took one more step—and someone else did, too. From the opposite side. We stopped at the exact same time in front of the canvas.

And that’s when I saw him.

Tall. Sharp jawline. Expensive everything. His coat looked like it was steamed by angels. His shoes—zero creases. His watch probably had more features than my phone. And his expression? Please. The man looked like the painting owed him money.

I gave him a quick once-over and instantly decided: Corporate vampire. Definitely runs a cult. Or worse—a startup.

"Wow," I muttered just loud enough, sipping my coffee, "I didn’t realize rage-quitting a crayon box could get you a gallery spot."

He turned slowly, like I’d just called his mother’s lasagna trash.

“That ‘rage quit’,” he said in a voice so smooth it probably got promoted last week, “is a representation of post-industrial emotional collapse. It’s intentional.”

I raised a brow. “Sure. And my laundry pile is a commentary on domestic disarray in a capitalist society.”

His jaw clenched. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Perhaps it’s not the art’s fault if your understanding is... elementary.”

“Bold of you to assume I came here to understand,” I said with a shrug. “I just follow the arrows and judge silently.”

He scoffed, turning slightly to face me. His coat shifted as he moved—silky, dark, and probably hand-stitched by someone named Giovanni. The man looked like he belonged on the cover of Billionaire & Brooding Monthly. Honestly, it was offensive how good he looked. He even smelled expensive—notes of leather, arrogance, and vintage control issues.

“You clearly lack nuance,” he replied, as if diagnosing a disease.

“And you clearly paid someone a fortune to tell you which scarf matches your soul,” I fired back.

He narrowed his eyes. “Some people recognize sophistication. Others… mistake sarcasm for intelligence.”

“Touché,” I said with a grin. “But then again, some people mistake high cheekbones and overpriced accessories for a personality.”

His nostrils flared. I could tell he wasn’t used to being talked to like this. Or maybe he was used to people being too intimidated to talk to him at all.

We stood there, side by side, both judging the chaotic canvas like it had personally offended us. Around us, visitors were starting to notice. I even heard a few whispers. Someone pointed. I wasn’t sure if it was at me or Mr. Dark Academia over here.

I turned to him again, mostly just to annoy him.

“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “maybe the real art is us arguing over what looks like a ketchup accident on a panic attack.”

He opened his mouth to reply—but was cut off by a timid voice.

“Excuse me,” said a young gallery assistant who had clearly drawn the short straw. He smiled nervously. “Just so you both know… that isn’t part of the exhibit. It’s actually the gallery’s emergency fire blanket display. Someone moved the label.”

…

Silence.

I stared at the so-called art.

Then at Mr. Suit & Superiority.

He blinked slowly. I’m pretty sure his soul just short-circuited.

I cleared my throat. “So… not post-industrial emotional collapse, huh?”

He said nothing.

I shrugged. “Well, rage-crayon box wins again.”

He still said nothing. Just the faintest twitch in his jaw.

I started to walk away, sipping the last of my coffee. “Thanks for the intellectual workout, Mr. Emotional Decay.”

“Thanks for the noise pollution,” he replied coolly.

I raised a hand without looking back. “Glad I could ruin your day. Or was that the blanket’s job?”

As I exited toward the next exhibit, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. He was still standing there, all stiff shoulders and shattered pride.

I’ll give him this much—he had the face. Sharp, symmetrical, almost cinematic. He probably made mirrors feel lucky.

But then again… what was the point of being that good-looking if your personality had the warmth of expired printer ink?

Adrian’s POV

I had exactly thirty minutes to spare before my next meeting. A brief walk through the gallery was meant to be a palate cleanser—a moment of calm between strategic proposals and performance reviews.

And then he happened.

A human hurricane in a hoodie.

The moment I stepped up to the piece, I sensed his presence like one senses a mosquito: subtle, irritating, and destined to leave a mark.

He stood beside me, sipping what I could only assume was a coffee-flavored sugar bomb, and immediately insulted the painting. Loudly.

Crayon box? Really?

At first, I ignored him. But then he kept talking. As if sarcasm was a language and he was fluent with a minor in “how to test my patience.”

He insulted the art. Then, the concept of art. Then, subtly, me.

I was stunned—not because I couldn’t handle criticism - but because no one usually dared.

And certainly not someone wearing sneakers that looked like they'd lost a fight with a food truck.

Still, I engaged. Against my better judgment.

We argued. About abstract expressionism. About society. About brunch, of all things. He threw barbs like confetti. Loud, inappropriate, oddly clever confetti.

He noticed everything—from my shoes to my watch to the fabric of my coat. He commented on it all, out loud. And accurately, which annoyed me more than it should have.

Then the assistant appeared. With the worst news imaginable.

The “art” was not art at all. A fire blanket. A fire blanket.

Humiliation burned hotter than the emergency it was meant for.

I stood in silence, unable to find a single appropriate response.

He, naturally, filled the void with more nonsense.

And then he walked away. Like he hadn't just turned my Thursday into performance theater.

I watched him go—hood up, coffee gone, one headphone in. He walked like he owned the ground and didn’t care whose shoes it dirtied.

What a ridiculous human being.

And yet...

He was striking. Messy, yes. Casual. But striking.

There was a kind of disorganized confidence to him. Like he didn’t care if people stared—probably preferred it. His smile was crooked, smug. His eyes were sharp and mischievous, like he was constantly thinking of something he shouldn’t say but would anyway.

Aesthetic chaos.

Still, I didn’t know his name. Didn’t want to. Loud, careless, impossible to ignore.

I adjusted my coat and turned toward the next room.

“Immature,” I muttered.

And yet… my lips twitched.

He may be a walking disaster.

But he was—regrettably—memorable.

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