He kept walking, and I followed—slowly, carefully, one step behind. We turned into another corridor, even more secluded. Here, the paintings were smaller, more intimate. A woman brushing her hair. A sleeping girl in a garden. A nude curled up beneath a dark blue sky.
Shoji looked at me again, eyes gleaming. "Art like this… it reminds me of the women I've known. Soft, yet elusive. Always leaving you wanting more."
I reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, mostly so I wouldn't slap him. I glanced around instead, noting how quiet it had become. No footsteps. No chatter. Just the distant thrum of music, faint and far away.
Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, a waitress passed by silently, carrying a silver tray with flutes of champagne. Shoji plucked one and turned to me.
"For you," he said, handing it over.
I took it, still smiling.
Only a sip. Just enough to keep the mask in place.
