In the heart of Chelsea's art district in New York City, a charity art exhibition was quietly unfolding within a modernist gallery framed by floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Night had just fallen, and a line of black luxury cars already filled the curb. Men and women in formal attire entered the gallery in small groups, their polished elegance mingling with the scents of champagne and expensive perfume. The soft clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation painted a scene both refined and vibrant.
Warm, gentle lights shone down from overhead, illuminating each artwork with care. At the center of the gallery, a pale blue gown shimmered faintly under the lights, as if bathed in morning sunlight. Allison Green stood gracefully before one of her paintings, smiling as she spoke with a guest.
The hem of her dress swept lightly across the floor with each step, and her chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, a few loose strands framing her forehead. Her fair skin glowed softly in the light, and her green eyes—like a tranquil spring deep within the forest—held a quiet depth that drew people in.
"Your use of color is truly stunning," a female guest remarked, gazing at the painting in awe.
Allison smiled gently, her voice warm and composed. "Thank you. I've always felt that children's emotions are the most honest and unfiltered. My inspiration often comes from their smallest, most subtle reactions."
At that moment, a gaze unlike the others cut through the crowd and settled quietly on her.
Sebastian Hall, dressed in a finely tailored charcoal suit, had the top button of his shirt undone, revealing the elegant line of his neck and a composed, effortless charm. With a glass of champagne in hand, he moved silently through the crowd—but his eyes were fixed on one painting, on one figure.
In the artwork, a girl sat by a window, her head bowed over a picture book, her expression serene and absorbed. Her outline... the mood, the light—it all felt so familiar. His breath caught for a split second. Almost instinctively, he looked up at the woman standing before the painting.
And then, he saw Allison.
For an instant, he felt as if time had folded back on itself. The expression on her face, the quiet intensity in her eyes as she engaged with her audience—something about it mirrored a presence he thought he had lost long ago.
Allison seemed to sense his gaze. She paused slightly and turned toward him.
Her expression showed a flicker of uncertainty, as if trying to place the source of a strange déjà vu. She looked at him, but didn't look away. Instead, her lips curled into a polite, measured smile.
Sebastian stepped forward, his eyes still lingering on the painting as he spoke in a low voice:
"This piece is incredibly moving. How did you manage to capture such pure emotion?"
Allison turned to him, her gaze steady. This man seemed refined, even relaxed, but she didn't miss the brief moment of surprise in his eyes—nor the curiosity that burned behind them.
"Thank you," she replied softly. "I've always believed that children have the purest inner world. If you pay close enough attention, you can feel their emotions without words."
Sebastian nodded, a faint smile forming on his lips. "Your work definitely conveys that innocence. It's rare to see."
He extended a hand, adding, "Sebastian."
"Allison Green." She accepted his handshake. The moment their hands touched, a subtle warmth passed between their fingers.
He glanced around, then said with a relaxed smile, "I've seen quite a few pieces tonight, but I must admit—this one made me stop for several extra minutes."
"Maybe that emotion just happened to resonate with you," Allison replied, her tone still cautious but softening. "I believe every painting is waiting for the person who can truly connect with it."
"Then I guess I might be that person," Sebastian said, his smile tinged with playful charm.
Allison lowered her gaze with a soft laugh, then looked up again. "Do you come to art shows often?"
"Not really. But I'm glad I came tonight," he said, pausing. "I usually prefer museums. Places like this can feel too loud. Too many people pretending they understand art—when really, they're just comparing whose collar is stiffer."
Allison burst out laughing, her expression finally relaxed. "I happen to feel the same way."
And just like that, they dove into conversation—about recent exhibitions, illustration trends in New York, even the link between art and education. One topic flowed into the next, effortlessly, as if they'd known each other for years.
The champagne had been refilled twice, the crowd had thinned, and the background music softened into something almost intimate.
Sebastian glanced at his watch, then looked up, slightly hesitant. "Allison, talking with you has been a real pleasure. To keep that going... I was wondering if you'd do me the honor of having dinner with me?"
Allison paused, her gaze locking with his sincere eyes.
She hesitated for a second. Then a small smile formed at the corner of her lips, and she nodded. "I'd like that."
He extended his hand, palm up, like a gentleman.
She placed hers in his, fingers curling lightly.
The gallery's glass doors slid shut behind them. The night settled gently over their shoulders, and the spring evening in New York wrapped around them with just the right kind of softness.