noircurator

[noircurator]

geneviève watched ava with quiet amusement, curious to hear what interpretation she might land on. when none came, only that theatrical sigh, she let out a soft laugh and brought her glass to her lips. “i’m afraid i can’t explain it to you,” she said gently, her french accent weaving through her words. “art is never just one thing. it becomes whatever the viewer sees in it.” she paused, eyes lingering on the piece before them. “so tell me… what do you see?”

context: eden gallery with: @noircurator

Ava's head tilts to one side. Then to the other. Her eyes narrow. She leans in, slightly, then back. After a minute, she clicks her tongue, sips on her drink and makes a face. "I give up," she announces, peering at the other woman next to her. "Just explain it to me. I wasn't born for this," she sighs dramatically. The Syndicate did always have a certain flair...

[noircurator]

from the outside, she appeared composed, unaffected by the glances cast their way, most of which, she knew, were more curious about the man beside her than anything else. behind her calm expression, calculations turned quietly in her mind, possibilities playing out like a chessboard she had yet to fully see.

his voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her eyes up to him. her words came low, nearly lost beneath the swell of the crowd.

“this is not good," she murmured, just under her breath, before letting her gaze sweep back over the room.

“i only expect you to do what is right for you,” she said, measured, clear. “as i will do for myself.” a pause. “though… working for you, it wouldn’t be the worst fate.”

Throughout the auction, Lee can't help but feel many eyes studying him — as though he's to be considered part of the package too. And in a way, he is.

"Again, darling," he says into his glass, "I've got to assume you're flattering me." There had been plenty of chances to visit France when he'd lived closer to it, and while he'd done so once or twice, emerging himself in the culture had never been a priority.

Twenty years later, memories have all most faded entirely.

"...I'm not bidding, darling," Lee tells her, "if that's what you expect me to do."

[noircurator]

there was no denying the gravity between them, something unspoken yet palpable in the air. the way his eyes held hers, all brooding shadows and hidden truths, tugged at something she couldn’t quite name. geneviève understood that kind of darkness all too well, and still, she found herself drawn in, curious about what else might lurk beneath.

but the moment was cut short. the stir in the gallery snapped her focus back to the present, and with it, a wave of unease washed over her.

her gaze swept across the room, taking in each raised paddle and subtle nod. every bid was a threat, a stranger’s hand reaching for the very empire she had trusted, built herself her own foundation with precision and sacrifice within. the thought of losing it all to someone who didn’t understand the blood in its roots made her jaw tighten.

her eyes met lee’s again, and her fingers brushed against his, just enough to anchor her.

“je n’aime pas ça,” she murmured, her voice low and edged with steel. this auction felt like betrayal wrapped in elegance. and lee might’ve been right. they could be bloody done for.

The darkness of Lee's gaze finds Genevieve's own, diving deep into its abyss. His ego sings at the idea that such a high caliber woman would humour him for as long as she has — and his thoughts slip away into ideas of what playful flirting could ultimately become.

If only they weren't interrupted, by the motion in the gallery. Bidding starts, putting both of their destinies at risk.

Lee follows the faces of the people who engage — potential leaders, all of them. Then, his eyes find Genevieve's again.

"We're bloody done for, aren't we, love?"

[noircurator]

geneviève’s gaze flicked briefly to the leather folder she’d just closed, the weight of unfinished paperwork lingering at the edge of her mind, but it could wait. better that she see to this now, without the distractions of a half-open gallery or visitors drifting too close.

“the second floor, oui?” she repeated, the words shaped by her native cadence as she stepped past him, heels tapping briskly across the marble. Just before reaching the stairs, she glanced back, expression unreadable but voice gently inquisitive.

“which gallery did you prefer up there?” it wasn’t just politeness. she didn’t know him, not really, but she was already filing him away by the way he answered. taste revealed more than people realised.

"— one of those months, actually." Selim admits truthfully though he follows it up with a concessive, self-deprecating laugh. There wasn't much that he could do about the whirlwind that had come with his ex-husband being released from prison but at least, if he laughed about it, he wouldn't break down into tears in front of this poor, unsuspecting woman. "Thank you..."

Briefly, he wants to mention that he had jurisdiction and could probably charm the security with a little bit of well-timed humour and a specific, trained edge to his voice but he decides against it; looking would be faster anyway. "Understood." He nods, following the curator as they move through the hall. Where was he last? And how would his wallet have fallen out of his pocket? "Um..." He thinks aloud. The word itself triggers something in his mind, a memory of his phone embarrassingly pinging in a gallery on the second floor and his momentary fluster as he yanked the device from his pocket to silence it before people condemned him for bad etiquette. "Let's search one of the galleries on the second floor first, I have a feeling its there." He suggests, his cheeks flush.

[noircurator]

“perhaps it’s best left at home, non?” geneviève offered with a light tease, her gaze following his briefly to the couple before drifting back to him. “well, oui, anything art related, i tend to have the answer for,” she added with a hint of a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. it was what she’d come for, after all.

at least, that had been the plan. the private auction wasn’t something she had expected, until whispers found her ears, and now, it had her attention, leaving her on edge, masked by a calm demeanour.

“pleasure,” she echoed smoothly with a small pause. “i assume the same for you?”

"Confiscated at the door but don't fear, I'll get it back eventually" Halil answers with a quirk of his lips, his light eyes finding the spot where his wife and their partner were standing. He'd taken to staying close yet far away from them upon entering; a precaution that he hated to take but one that was necessary. "Thank you, by the way — her birthday is in a couple of weeks," The professor motions to a bespectacled dark, curly-haired woman holding a wine glass of her own. "without your help the other day, I would've been in stormy waters for at least a year." "Here for business? Or fun?"

[noircurator]

geneviève found a certain satisfaction in the way lee met her challenge, not with bravado, but with the kind of composure that hinted at quiet power. he didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat into jest. that intrigued her most.

“oui,” she murmured, a slow smile curving her lips, “you may be right about that.” her mind was a maze of shifting lines, principles fluid, morality pliable. she was drawn to the darker edges of thought, where beauty took on a more dangerous shape.

there was something in lee that pulled her in, an elegance in restraint, intellect cloaked in charm, and a way of folding into the shadows that made her feel seen without spectacle. that, in itself, was rare.

her gaze drifted to his hand now resting atop hers, the contact subtle yet arresting. the space between them had vanished, tension thickening like silk around their bodies. it traveled her spine in a shiver she didn’t bother to hide.

leaning in just enough for her voice to become a secret between them, she replied, “alors… let’s hope your mind proves just as tempting as your touch, mon cher.”

A different man wouldn't hesitate to claim himself able to handle it — handle, her —, even if they could not. Lee however finds thrill in the challenge, and in the very mystique that Genevieve could out-power him at any moment, if she truly wanted to.

So instead, he simply grins. "I suppose we've got to find out, haven't we?" And as for her mind— "The darker, the better."

His eyes dart down to the hand at his lapel, appreciating the view for what it is. Genevieve is a beautiful woman, he'd always thought so — and her proximity wouldn't be taken for granted.

"I know, darling. And neither do I." Lee places his palm on top of her hand, then. "I'd love nothing more than to spend the rest of the night exploring the deepest parts of that dangerous brain of yours, darling — and offer mine in return."

[noircurator]

geneviève noticed the subtle tilt of his head, the quiet stiffness in his posture. she didn’t need to ask to know something was weighing on him, it was written in the way he held himself, like he was carrying more than just polite conversation beneath the surface of this carefully curated night.

when he agreed to step away, she didn't hesitate. her gaze caught on a quieter corner of the gallery, dimly lit, tucked just enough away from the crowd, a painting hanging there that could serve as a gentle distraction if needed. “par ici,” she murmured with a soft, almost knowing smile, her steps unhurried as she led the way.

once they stood beside each other, eyes on the canvas before them, geneviève found herself unable to admire it. her usual love for art faded in the presence of the heaviness between them. her voice dropped, quieter now, more honest. “change has never come easy to me,” she admitted, each word carefully chosen. “i’ve spent too long building everything what i have… trust, for me, is earned slowly.”

she glanced over to him then, her gaze not demanding but open, patient. “if there is something you can share… anything at all,” she said gently, eyes searching his with quiet concern, “i am here to listen.”

Humming his understanding, it takes everything in him not to tilt his head from side to side in some effort to release the tension now coiled in his shoulders. Art has never been his thing, though he does try. His sights land on the piece nearest, and Sam is about to utter some witty, deep thing about peace in return when she suddenly pulls back the mask.

And then he wonders, what would her concerns be? Thoughts? Ideas? "Certainly," he nods his affirmation, looking over the heads of the small sea of people for an escape. "They couldn't even afford us a dark corner, huh?" It's all so damn bright in here.

[noircurator]

“mm, but the real question is… could you handle what you find in there?” her tone lingered somewhere between teasing and challenge, a glint in her eye daring him to try. “prince charming?” she gave a light, melodic laugh. “non, i have no need for a perfect fairytale man. i prefer a little wildness… a little danger. beasts tend to hold my attention far better.”

she let the weight of his words about the painting settle before replying, voice velvet-smooth. “you fancy?” she echoed, the corner of her lips curving, clearly amused and not unimpressed. the price tag hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was his intention that caught her deeper interest. “you’ve known me long enough to understand, mon cher… i never take anything i don’t truly desire.”

with a slow, fluid motion, her hand lifted to adjust the lapel of his blazer, fingertips dragging just long enough to make the gesture intimate. then it fell back to her side as her eyes found his, warm and glimmering with something more.

“you and i both know,” she murmured, voice dropping just a note, “the cost would be worth every moment.”

"Now, your mind is something I'd like to dive into, darling." Though perhaps it wouldn't be quite so true, the other way around. "Alas, when it comes to fairytales, I've been convinced I'm not prince charming — but that I'm the dragon, instead." A tame grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "So perhaps that is why I find such affinity in my winged, fire-breathing mates."

Then, he laughs. "Clever words, perhaps. Alas, I don't make it a habit to purchase three-hundred-thousand-dollar paintings for every woman I fancy. Though, I shall hope that this woman enjoys her gift, yet knows that there is nothing expected of her because of it."

"...Not usually," he quips, eyeing her back. "But perhaps, I could make the sacrifice."

[noircurator]

@drhkilic setting: the eden gallery - event

geneviève had noticed him the moment he entered, hard to forget a man who once arrived at her door the way he had. with the weight still hanging in the air, it felt only right to say something.

she moved to stand beside him, glass of wine in hand, taking a slow sip as her gaze settled on the painting before them. the silence held for a beat, measured and intentional, before her voice cut through it, cool, edged with dry amusement. “no paper bag this time?” she turned to meet his eyes.

[noircurator]

“you’ll have to conquer my mind first,” she murmured, her smile slow and deliberate. “dragons are for bedtime stories. i think you’re the sort of man who prefers something a little more… complicated. non?” she let the moment stretch, her gaze lingering on him with quiet amusement and just enough heat to make it intentional.

“tell me, monsieur malkovich…” her voice dipped slightly, soft around the edges. “is this your idea of foreplay? lavish gifts and clever words?” a soft laugh escaped her. “not that i’m complaining. some art is worth chasing.” she turned her attention back to the painting, letting her silence betray her choice. a woman who knew what she wanted rarely had to say it outright.

“do you do home delivery?” she asked, casting him a glance over her shoulder, her meaning unmistakable.

"What, darling?" He half-laughs, eyeing her with intrigue. "Must I battle a dragon to know your masterpiece of choice?"

It's refreshing, to be offered poison before the antidote. "Now, I've offered to buy you a painting. Whether it's expensive or not, it's entirely up to you." Lee sips his wine, allowing a beat. "Though I, more than most, understand there's no such thing as a price-limit when it comes to art."

His eyes find the painting, and then its designated numbers. Steep, yet his earnings do seem to mostly gather dust — without much reason for spending. "Consider it yours."

[noircurator]

geneviève had been raised to keep her composure, grace under pressure, no cracks, no tells. It was a skill sharpened by years of practice, but sam could tell the truth in her eyes. “for now,” she said softly, the words carrying more weight than they let on.

everything she’d built felt like it was teetering on the edge. the thought of losing control, of having her fate decided by someone else, settled uneasily in her chest. her eyes drifted over the gallery walls. “there’s beauty everywhere, and still I find no peace in it.”

she turned to him then, meeting his gaze head-on. “can we speak somewhere private?” her voice was quiet but firm, no longer wrapped in performance. she needed answers, who was moving behind the curtain, who might be placing bids on the syndicate, and most of all, where she still held some power to pull.

She's so calm. He recognizes himself in it, honestly. Here he is, irate and anxious to his core while putting on the most convincing face to ever grace the Earth. "Hey, Gen," he matches that energy. Their sights meet, and it's all the confirmation he needs to understand that there is no calm here. A hum of a laugh escapes him as he entertains her question.

She knows he's not, and he knows it.

"At least the painting isn't getting blown up." Bright side, if one can call it that. Still, he doesn't find humor in his own jokes. Behind sheer determination is the knowledge that if he doesn't get what he wants, they're all endangered by who knows what. "The evening up to your expectations?" It's not, he knows—but this is her opportunity to speak freely.

[noircurator]

geneviève studied the canvas in silence, letting her eyes follow the chaotic brushwork while Heath spoke. At the mention of his daughter and the paint, a soft laugh escaped her, barely there, but real. “then perhaps you shouldn’t be late for dinner,” she said simply, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. the pause that followed was unhurried. she took a sip of her wine.

“art is... subjective, monsieur morgan.” her gaze stayed on the painting. abstract wasn’t her preference, but she knew better than to dismiss it outright. she looked up at him then, steady and curious. “why don’t you tell me what you see?”

heath didn't turn right away, taking a sip of wine first, like he was giving the painting a second chance to explain itself. his gaze lingered on the canvas, bold choice to hang that in public - he had seen crime scene photos with better color palettes "my daughter does the same damn thin' all over my walls when she's throwin' a fit cause i missed dinner" he admitted with a soft nod "only difference is, this one's worth a helluva lotta cash. mais bien sûr, je ne suis pas un expert"

then he glanced down at geneviève, finally meeting her gaze "ya'd sure know better than i ever could. so please enlighten me, miss moreau. what am i supposed to be seein' here?" his tone wasn’t dismissive, more like entirely aware he didn't belong but too comfortable in his own skin to pretend otherwise

[noircurator]

@heath-morgan setting: the eden gallery, event

glass of wine in hand, geneviève's gaze caught on a face she hadn’t expected to see in a place like this. of all people, he seemed the least likely to be drawn in by brushstrokes and canvas. still, there he was.

curiosity tugged at her, guiding her steps until she stood beside him. she let her eyes settle on the artwork in front of them, allowing a brief pause before she spoke.

"and what do you make of this one, monsieur morgan?" her accent wrapped around his name, words smooth and deliberate as she glanced up at him.

[noircurator]

@samburman setting: the eden gallery, event

geneviève couldn’t shake the edge clinging to her all evening. the art surrounding her stirred something familiar and grounding, but that nagging voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her of what was unfolding behind the scenes. she had always been a woman drawn to power, one who thrived in circles where influence wasn’t just admired, it was expected. tonight, though, there was a risk. a shift. a chance that she might lose what she had built.

her steps took her to another piece, eyes scanning it without focus, until she realized she wasn’t alone. someone was already standing there. it took her a moment longer than it should have to recognize him.

"bonsoir, sam." her eyes lingered on his for a second before drifting back to the canvas. "are you enjoying the evening?" she asked, her voice calm, too calm.

[noircurator]

her gaze trails alongside his, eyes flicking over the gallery walls with quiet interest, as if trying to decipher how he might interpret her choices. "not quite so simple," she murmurs, a hint of amusement tugging at her mouth, indulging in sip of her wine.

genevieve wasn’t the type to let mystery linger long. she arched a brow, voice lilting with mischief. “oui. that is how you seduce women.” a soft tsk, more playful than scolding. “offer to buy them an expensive painting?"

she drifted toward a canvas at the far wall, a quiet painting in the style of vermeer. a woman stood by a window, bathed in pale light, caught somewhere between waiting and wondering.

"Alright, then," Lee nods, allowing his gaze to travel the room, quietly wondering where her taste would take them. "Which one?"

Then, the French takes him by storm — unexpected and hardly understood. "I've no idea what you'd just asked, darling, so I'll just go ahead and answer— 'Oui'."

[noircurator]

geneviève monreau @ the eden gallery.

geneviève is attending for her love of art, and the possibility of a purchase. she is also there due to it being associated with the syndicate.

[noircurator]

genevieve roamed the gallery’s open space, drawn in by vermeer’s light, yet a quiet unease lingered at the edge of her thoughts, stirred by the whispers of another auction.

she sensed him approach before he spoke, her gaze fixed on the brushwork before her, reading it like scripture.

“i do,” she answered, spine lengthening as she turned to face him, her mouth brushing the rim of her wine glass. a sly note coloured her voice. “c’est comme ça que tu séduis les femmes, alors?”

@noircurator setting: the eden gallery, event

At the art gallery, Lee finds himself pulled into a Genevieve's atmosphere — one of the few minds in the room whose passion for the baroque movement could level his own.

The Vermeer sits in display at the centre of the room, yet other works —just as magnificent— surround it. Sleek plaques tucked under the frames suggest, they are also open for bidding.

"Have you got a favourite?" He asks Genevieve, settling at her side. "Can I buy it for you?"