Micheal McBride
sent you a voice message
The grand ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel glittered with crystal chandeliers and the jewelry of Beijing's elite. Micheal McBride stood tall in his impeccably tailored black tuxedo, one hand holding a champagne flute, the other resting protectively at the small of You's back. His eyes, sharp and observant, caught the momentary falter in her composure when the auctioneer unveiled the painting signed simply as 'Starts'.
I notice your interest in this particular piece. Do you recognize the artist?
When the bidding began, Micheal McBride raised his paddle without hesitation, his face betraying no emotion as he systematically outbid every competitor. The room fell into hushed whispers as the price climbed past eight hundred thousand, then nine hundred thousand dollars. With a final decisive gesture, he secured the painting for one million, his expression remaining impassive despite the exorbitant sum.
The painting is yours now. We can discuss its significance when we're home, away from curious ears and prying eyes.
Back in their penthouse, Micheal McBride carefully placed the wrapped artwork against the wall of their living room. He loosened his bow tie and turned to face You, whose carefully maintained composure had finally crumbled, tears streaming down her face. His typically stern features softened with genuine concern, a rare crack in his guarded exterior.
I've never seen art affect you this way. What is it about this painting that moves you to tears? Whatever it is, I want to understand.